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DANTE. 



DANTE 



AS 



PHILOSOPHER, PATRIOT, AND POET. 



WITH AN ANALYSIS OF 



THE DIVINA COMMEDIA, 

ITS PLOT AND EPISODES. 



By VINCENZO BOTTA. 

it 



M Onoratc l'altissimo poeta." — Inftrnt, iv. 



NEW YORK: 

CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO., 

654 BROADWAY. 

1867. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, 

By VINCENZO BOTTA, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
District of New York. 



■3x 



All' Italia, 

CHE NELLA COMMEMORAZIONE 
DEL SESTO CENTENARIO DALLA NASCITA 

Di Dante Allighieri 

CELEBRA IL PROPRIO RINASCIMENTO 

ALL A VITA DI NAZIONE, 

L'/IUTORE, 

PARTECIPANDO ALLA COMUNE ESULTANZA, 

DEDICA QUEST* OPERA 

IN UMILE TRIBUTO DI DEVOZIONE. 

New York, il Maggio del 1865. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Introduction. — The Age of Dante. — Guelphs and Ghibelins. — The 
Influence of Dante on the Progress of Italian Nationality I—I 3 

His Birth and Ancestors 14 

His Early Love. — The "Vita Nuova." — Beatrice, a Symbolic 
Personification J 4 -2 3 

His Early Education. — Philosophic Education. — The " Convito." 
— His Philosophy .* 24-41 

Dante as a Naturalist 4 2 ~5i 

His Patriotism. — The Florentine Constitution. — Dante enters Public 
Life. — Early Change in his Political Views 52,-5 3 

His Political System, combining Unity of Government with Na- 
tional Liberties. — " De Monarchia." — " De Vulgari Eloquio." — 
The Principle of Nationality 5 3-64 

The Papacy. — Its History and its Policy. — Dante opposes the Pa- 
pacy as a Political Power. — He opposes- it also as a Spiritual Sove- 
reignty. — Rossetti's Theory. — Dante's Religious Ideas 65—75 

Dante as the Chief Magistrate of the Florentine Republic. — 
The Bianchi and the Neri. — Vieri dei Cerchi. — Corso Donati. — A 
Dinner-Party. — Public Disturbances. — A Bold Stroke of Policy. — 
New Complications. — Dante goes to Rome, as an Ambassador of 
the Republic. — Treachery of Pope Boniface VIII. — The Neri in 
Power 75-84 

Dante is condemned to Exile. — His Efforts to return to Florence. 
— Dante not a Partisan 84-87 

His Wanderings through the Country. — A Circumstance which 
induces him to continue his Poem, which he had begun before his 
Exile. — Gemma, his Wife 87-90 



viii Table of Contents. 

PAGE 

His Visit to Monte Corvo, and his Interview with Fra Ilario. — His 
Residence in Paris 91 —93 

The Emperor Henry VII. — Dante's Hopes revive. — Florence plots 
against the Emperor. — Indignation of the Poet. — Dante in Genoa, 
then in Pisa. — The Emperor before Florence. — A Charge contra- 
dicted. — The Fleet of Italy 93-102 

Dante at the Court of Uguccione deila Faggiuola, in Pisa and in 
Lucca. — At the Court of Can Grande della Scala, at Verona 102-103 

His Sufferings in Exile. — His Longing to return. — His Refusal of an 
Am nest\'.— New Causes of his Dissatisfaction 103-109 

He goes to Ravenna, at the Court of the Polentas. — He is kindly 
received. — He is sent as an Ambassador to Venice. — His Disap- 
pointment 109-1 1 1 

His Death. — His Funeral. — His Monument at Ravenna 111-113 

His Portrait by Giotto. — Other Early Portraits of the Poet 114-116 

The " Divina Commedia." — Its Mythologic Foundation. — Its Alle- 
goric Character. — The Protagonist of the Poem. — Its Unity. — The 
Predominance of the Individuality of the Poet. — The Universality 
of the Poem. — The Human Type, as portrayed by Dante. — Nature 
a Predominant Element of the " Commedia." — God in the Poem. 

/ — The Angels.— The Demons. — The Style 11 9-1 41 

Dante's Influence on Italian Literature. — His Influence on 
the Mind of Foreign Nations 141 -145 

His Influence on Art 145-147 

Analysis of the Poem, considered as a Dramatic Composition, — Its 
Prologue. — The Forest; the Three Beasts. — Virgil. — His Mis- 
sion from Beatrice. — The Mystic Journey 14S-155 

Infern^. — Its Structure and Divisions. — The Inscription. — The Neu- 
trals. — The River Acheron. — Charon. — The Limbo. — The Ancient 
Poets. — The Heroes and Heroines. — Minos. — Francesca da Rimini. 
— The Gluttonous. — Cerberus. — Ciacco, the Pig. — The Prodigal 
and Avaricious. — Fortune. — The Wrathful and Slothful. — Filippo 
Argenti.— The City of Dis.— The Furies.— The Angel of God.— 
Atheists and Infidels. — Farinata degli Uberti. — Cavalcante Caval- 
canti. — The Penal Code of the (i Commedia." — The Violent. — 



Table of Contents. ix 

PAGE 

The Minotaur and the Centaurs. — The Tyrants. — The Suicides. — 
Pietro delle Vigne. — The Blasphemers. — Capaneus. — The Sym- 
bol of Humanity, and the Rivers of Kell. — Brunetto Latini. — 
Geryon. — The Usurers. — The Poets descend the Abyss. — The 
Flatterers. — Tfye Simoniacs. — Nicholas III. — Boniface VIII. — Di- 
viners and Astrologers. — The Public Peculators. — An Alderman of 
Lucca on the Shoulders of a Black Devil. — Malacoda and his Com- 
panions. — The Lake of Boiling Pitch. — Ciampolo. — A Comic 
Scene. — An Escape from a Tragic End. — The Hypocrites. — A 
Steep Ascent. — The Robbers. — Vanni Fucci. — Cacus. — A Fright- 
ful Transformation of Men into Serpents, and of Serpents into Men. 
— Evil Counsellors. — Ulysses 5 his Discovery of America. — Guido 
da Montefeltro. — The Devil a Good Logician. — The Sowers of 
Scandal. — Mahomet. — Bertrand de Born, the Provencal Trouba- 
dour. — The Forgers. — Adamo da Brescia. — A Conversation. — The 
Giants. — The Sound of a Horn. — Antaeus. — The Traitors. — Bocca 
degli Abati and others. — Count Ugolino. — Fra Alberigo. — Lucifer. 

— Exeunt 15 6-243 

Purgatorio. — Its Structure and Divisions. — Change of Scene. — Cato. 
— Dante is laved with the Dew of Heaven. — He is girt with a 
Reed. — Landing of Spirits. — Casella. — Manfred, King of Naples. — 
The Ascent. — The Type of Idleness. — Other Spirits. — Buonconte 
di Montefeltro. — La Pia. — Sordello. — An Invective. — Sordello and 
Virgil. — Valle Fiorita. — Two Angels. — The Serpent. — The Eagle. 
— The Poets enter the Purgatorio. — Sculptures. — The Proud. — The 
Lord's Prayer. — Oderigi da Gubbio. — Worldly Fame. — Sculptures. 
— An Angel. — The Envious. — The Ghost of Sapia. — Guido del 
Duca. — The Angel of God. — A Fog. — Marco Lombardo. — A 
Vision. — A Syren. — An Angel. — The Avaricious. — Adrian V. — 
Statius. — The Gluttonous. — Forese Donati. — Against the Immod- 
est Dresses of the Ladies of Florence. — The Poet Buonagiunta. — 
A Prophecy. — The Angel of God. — Carnal Sinners. — Guido Gui- 
nicelli. — Through the Fire. — Leah. — The Terrestrial Paradise. — 
Matilda. — A Vision. — The Pageant of the Church. — The Appari- 
tion of Beatrice. — The Poet's Rebuke. — His Repentance.- -Beatrice 



Table of Contents. 



unveiled. — The Tree of Humanity. — The Car of the Church and 
the Tree of Humanity. — The History of the Church. — Its Trans- 
formation into a Monstrous Institution. — Beatrice's Advice and 

Prophecy. — Dante's Final Regeneration : 244-322 

Paradiso. — The Heavens. — The Structure of the Paradise — Beatrice 
gazing on the Sun. — Towards the First Heaven. — Love a Univer- 
sal Law. — His Further Ascent. — The Moon. — Piccarda Donati. — 
Religious Vows. — Mercury. — The Emperor Justinian. — Romeo. — 
Beatrice instructs the Poet. — Venus. — Charles Martel. — The Ghost 
of Cunizza. — Folques of Marseilles. — The Sun. — The Spirits in the 
Sun. — St. Thomas Aquinas. — St. Francis of Assisi. — St. Bonaven- 
tura. — St. Dominic. — The Dance and the Music of the Spirits. — 
Instruction. — Solomon. — The Smile of Beatrice. — Mars.. — -Chris- 
tian Warriors. — Cacciaguida. — The Golden Age of Florence.— Cac- 
ciaguida's Prophecy. — Dante's Answer. — Cacciaguida's Charge.— 
Jupiter. — The Imperial Eagle. — Saturn. — St. Pier Damiano. — The 
Luxury of the Priests. — St. Benedict. — The Fixed Stars. — The Tri- 
umph of Christ. — The Triumph of Mary. — The Prayer of Beatrice. 
— St. Peter. — Dante's Religious Faith. — St. James. — Hope. — St. 
John. — Charity. — St. Peter's Invective. — The Angelic Orders. — 
Reprehension of Theologians and Preachers. — The Empyrean. — 
The Triumph of the Blessed.— The Court of Heaven. — St. Ber- 
nard. — The Virgin Mary. — The Deity 32,3—41 3 



DAN TE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

" nriHE poet," says Schiller, cc is the son of his time, 
_JL but pity for him if he is its pupil, or even its 
favorite. Let some beneficent deity snatch him, when 
a suckling, from the breast of his mother, and nurse 
him with the milk of a better time, that he may ripen 
to his full stature beneath a distant Grecian sky ; and 
having grown to manhood, let him return, a foreign 
shape, into his century — not, however, to delight it by 
his presence, but, dreadful as the son of Agamemnon, 
to purify it." The ideal poet thus sketched by Schiller 
finds his highest historic illustration in the great na- 
tional bard of Italy, the colossal central figure of the 
age in which he lived. Its master rather than its pupil, 
the object of its persecution rather than its favorite, 
early snatched away by the beneficent deity of sorrow, 
to be nurtured by the contemplation of a lofty ideal, 
which was revealed to him alone, he walked, a foreign 
shape, among his countrymen, whom he sought not to 



2 The Age of Dat;::. 

delight, but to purify and elevate ; and although six 
centuries have passed away, the stern voice of his muse 
still utters its terrible rr^e dictions on evil-doers, and 
its menaces rrr:::s: the oppressors : : "is country; 

ile it exalts the just, and speaks words of hope and 
comfort to the oppressed. But if he soared above his 
contemporaries, he was nevertheless the son of his 
time, the ideas and sentiments of which he reflectedL 
We must, accordingly, s.~r.ce at its character, in order 
fully to comprehend his relation to it. 

The twelfth and thirteenth centuries mark that pe- 
riod of transition between ancient and modern times, 
in which Europe was Emerging ::om the chaos that 
succeeded the fall of the Rom::: Empire; when new 
and foreign elemenf ith the remains of 

I resulted in an organized socie- 
: y, althou g b still cc n and antagonistic 

elements; when the struggle between feudalism and 
democracv, the empire and the par e monarchi- 

cal system and the municipal regime, had combined to 
stimulate the human mind, and iead to those social 
transformations, of which the age of Dar:r. 5: great 

: tendencies, its deeds, and even its contradictions, 
the most remarkable result. It was an age of 
barbarism, superstition, ana: id tyranny : but it 

1 age in which refinement and free thought 
began to appear, M h a long::., for line 

order, and social unity. I - jdern languages and nation- 
alities were rapidlv devek ping j England had established 



The Age of Dante. 3 

her birthright in the Magna Charta ; France had com- 
menced the work of national organization ; the Spanish 
monarchy was advancing in resources and power ; Ger- 
many enjoying the conquests won in the reign of the 
glorious Hohenstauffens ; and the Christian world was 
gradually emancipating itself from the despotism of the 
Church, which had culminated in the great successor 
of Hildebrand, that terror of princes and heretics, In- 
nocent III. 

Meantime, the burgher class and the peasantry were 
rapidly becoming a power in the State ; the limits of 
the world were widened through the voyages of Marco 
Polo and other Italians ; ideas were enlarged, and com- 
merce extended ; and while the human mind beq;an to 
vindicate its independence, through the opposition of the 
Albigenses to the traditions of the papacy, as well as 
through the free songs of the Troubadours, the Uni- 
versities of Paris and Bologna became centres of learn- 
ing and genius \ science and theology were illustrated 
by the great names of Roger Bacon, St. Bonaventura, 
and Thomas Aquinas, and art found its highest expres- 
sion in the cathedrals of Antwerp and Cologne. 

In this work of social transformation, Italy had early 
taken the lead. Nourished more than any other nation 
by the Roman traditions, first awakened by the voice 
of Christianity, disorganized and reconstructed by the 
Northern invasions, morally and materially enriched by 
the Crusades, educated in the struggle between the pa- 
pacy and the empire, Italy, even in the darkest periods 



4 T^he Age of Dante. 

of her history, enjoyed greater wealth, order, liberty, 
and refinement, than could be found in any other part 
of Western Europe. While England, Germany, and 
France, were yet shrouded in barbarism, and crushed 
by the iron heel of feudalism, the Italian States had 
attained a high degree of social progress. In their 
municipal organization, they enjoved the freedom of 
self-government ; Venice, Genoa, Pisa, held the scep- 
tre of maritime commerce ; their ships covered every 
sea, and their colonies dotted the shores of the Med- 
iterranean ; while they were rivalled bv Florence and 
Milan, whose manufactories supplied Europe with com- 
modities of every kind, and whose banks made loans 
alike to tradesmen and monarchs. Long before the 
birth of Dante, the Lombard League, in the North, 
had permanently asserted the independence of the cities 
on the battle-field of Legnano, and caused their rights 
to be recognized by the treaty of Constance. In the 
South, during the reign of Frederick II., a brilliant pe- 
riod had opened under the Arabian influence : education, 
science, art, and poetry were promoted ; agriculture, 
commerce, and the administration of justice were im- 
proved ; free institutions were established ; the work of 
national unity was boldly undertaken, and to a great 
extent carried out ; and the authority of the State was 
firmly vindicated against the encroachments of the 
Church. The great principles of Roman jurisprudence 
were revived in the schools of Padua and Bologna ; 
while with the introduction of Arabian learning at the 



The Age of Dante. 5 

College of Salerno, began a new era in the history of 
intellectual development. Under these vivifying agen- 
cies, the arts also began to flourish, leaving imperisha- 
ble monuments in the magnificent palaces and churches 
which are still the admiration of the world, and in the 
illustrious names of Cimabue and Giotto, the greatest 
among the early regenerators of Italian art. 

But this advanced civilization contained within itself 
two fatal elements of disintegration and decay : the 
first, that of State sovereignty, on which the muni- 
cipal governments rested isolated and divided ; the 
second, the papacy, whose influence, however benefi- 
cial it may have proved to the cause of general civili- 
zation in the early period of its history, could not but 
be antagonistic to that national unity which, if com- 
pleted, would necessarily put an end to its supremacy. 
Hence, it has ever been the policy of the popes to 
foment local prejudices and ambitions, to promote dis- 
cord among the republics, to discourage all progress, 
to ally themselves with the more ignorant and supersti- 
tious classes, and to invite foreign intervention as the 
only means through which they could consolidate and 
preserve their power. These two sources of discord, 
which have distracted Italy for so many centuries, and 
prevented her organization, find their parallel to-day 
in these United States, whose national existence is 
threatened by the same pernicious doctrine of State 
Rights, and by the Slave-Power, which, in its assertion 
of the dominion of man over man, and in the social 
2* 



6 Qui ;j-. 

results which it produces, is so akin to the papal insti- 
tutions. 

In opposition to these influences, a tendency toward 
nationality early manifested itself in the struggle be- 
tween the empire and the papacy, which diyided Italy 
Into the two great parties of the Guelphs and the 
Ghibelins, who represented two opposing principles 
in Italian policy. With these two parties the life of 
Dante is so closely connected, that it would be impos- 
sible to comprehend his character, either as a statesman 
or a poet, without a glance at the!: history, and the 
issues inyolyed in their contest. 

The Italian people, in the tenth century, harassed 
by foreign inyaders and the contentions of feudal lords, 
placed themselves under the protection of Otho the 
Great, of Germany ; and from that time Italy, with 
the exception of a brief interval, remained united to 
the German Empire. The King of the Romans, being 
henceforth chosen by the Electors of Germany, be- 
came, after he had been crowned by the pope, the 
recognized head of the empire : the pope, in turn, 
was confirmed in power by the emperor, to whom, 
up to the thirteenth century, he acknowledged alle- 
giance. Under Gregory VII., howeyer, the papal 
Church not only asserted its independence cf the 
empire, but claimed control oyer all emperors and 
kin^s. Hence arose that gigantic struggle which was 
still going on in the time of Dante. 

In the reign of Henry IV., and in that of his succes- 



Guelphs and Ghibelins. 7 

sor, Henry V. (1056-1125), the ducal families of Welf 
and Wieblingen rose to power ; and their descendants, 
Conrad and Henry the Proud, became rival claimants 
for the imperial dignity — the one supporting the papal 
power, the other the imperial. The contest was trans- 
ferred to Italy, where the war-cries of the contending 
parties, Welf and Wieblingen, were naturalized into 
Guelfi and Ghibellinu 

From the time of Henry IV., Florence had taken 
sides with the Church, or the Guelph party ; but in 
1248, the Ghibelins succeeded in overthrowing their 
rivals, only to be in turn driven out the following year. 
The Guelphs remained in power, and a general pacifi- 
cation took place, soon to be disturbed, however, by 
the discovery of a conspiracy of the Ghibelins, many 
of whom were beheaded, while others escaped or were 
banished. The refugees fled to Siena, where, aided by 
Manfred, King of Naples and Sicily, and son of the 
Emperor Frederick II., they organized a powerful army, 
met the Florentine Guelphs, and gained over them the 
memorable battle of Monteaperti, in 1260. Florence 
now again fell under the Ghibelins, who held the 
power until 1266, when the Guelphs regained it by 
the aid of Charles of Anjou, who, instigated by the 
pope, came at the head of a French army to seize the 
kingdom of Manfred. Having been crowned in Rome, 
Charles, on his way to take possession of the domin- 
ions thus conferred upon him, found at Benevento the 
gallant Manfred ready to dispute his claim. The battle 



8 Guelphs and Ghibelins. 

which followed was at first fought with great bravery ; 
but when victory was about to crown the arms of the 
Swabian prince, he found himself suddenly deserted by 
his most trusted officers. Overwhelmed by this treach- 
ery, the heroic Manfred, refusing to escape, with a 
little band of faithful followers, rushed into the thickest 
of the fight, and fell on the field. Thus Charles of 
Anjou took possession of the kingdom of Naples and 
Sicily as a fief from the pope. Meanwhile, Florence 
and the other northern cities arrayed themselves under 
the banner of the Guelphs, who had placed him on the 
throne. On the arrival of his vicar to take possession 
of the Florentine government, which had been surren- 
dered to him for ten years, the Ghibelins departed 
from the city ; and, although they long continued the 
struggle, they never regained their former ascendency. 
In vain did Conradin, the grandson of Frederick II., 
the last scion of the Swabian race, strive to reconquer 
the inheritance of his ancestors. Although, a few years 
later, the bells of the Sicilian Vespers tolled the knell 
of the French domination in Sicily, and gave the signal 
for the renewal of the contest to which that unfortu- 
nate young prince had bravely challenged his foes from 
the scaffold, the power of the Guelphs remained un- 
impaired in the Peninsula. 

In that contest, the Guelphs and the Ghibelins not 
only represented the papal and imperial power, but 
that ever-existing antagonism between the plebeians 
and the patricians w T hich lies at the foundation of all 



Guelplu and Ghibelins. g 

political parties. The Guelphs were, at first, the ad- 
vocates of popular liberty, as expressed in the free 
municipalities ; and being thus opposed to the imperial 
or aristocratic power, they became the natural allies of 
the popes, who succeeded, through their aid, in raising 
the papacy to a height which it had never before at- 
tained. On the other hand, the Ghibelins, believing 
in the necessity of a stronger government, in the pre- 
vailing anarchy, supported the claims of the emperors 
and their vassals ; and thus, while they opposed the 
papacy, they aimed, at least indirectly, at the political 
consolidation of the Peninsula. With the fall of the 
Swabian family the Guelphs finally triumphed ; the 
aristocracy was defeated ; and the emperors found 
themselves confined, for the most part, to their Ger- 
man dominions. At the same time, a change of prin- 
ciples became apparent in both parties. While the 
Guelphs, secure in the possession of local freedom, 
ceased to oppose the nobility, which had now become 
almost identified with the people, resisted but faintly the 
empire, which was in its decline, they remained faithful 
to the cause of the popes, to whom they owed the final 
establishment of their power. The Ghibelins, on the 
other hand, opposed to the papacy, abandoning the 
claims of the aristocracy, remained devoted to national 
unity, which they sought to establish either by the 
revival of the empire, or by the elevation of a national 
chief. Thus, while the Guelphs represented the papal 
policy, the Ghibelins came to be the exponents of 



io ^Tke Influence of Dante. 

national rights — although many of them were mere 
adventurers, who sided with the emperors only to ad- 
vance their own interests. 

These struggles were not in vain; the public con- 
science was aroused from that lethargy into which it 
had fallen uncer the imduence :f the irrei : aa- 

he Church; Chr:s:ia:c::-- begin to free itself 
from the autward forms with which it had been encum- 
bered, and the aspiration for that individual and nati 
hbertv begun to o r i s o winch is ::: w r:-: ; ;;u:ze: ;o :::> 
stituting one of the essential principles of modern civ- 
ilization. A century had not yet passed since Innocent 
III. had caused the kings of Europe tc tremble on their 
thrones, and nations to fall at his feet, when the bull 
:f I'; efface VIII., claiming the right of interference in 
the administration of the State, was burned in Paris 
by the order of Philip the Fair, his former ally ; and 
the pope himself, dressed in his pontifical robes, was 
dragged from the church, and driven, amidst the jeers 
of the populace, through the streets of Anagni — the 
caricature of a power which was fast declining. 

It was in tais age of transit!::: that Dante wai ;:rn 
and nurtured ; it was by these influences that his genius 
mas ro am:. Early thrown into the turmoil of public 

ins C:uta:v. as ;. s:l;h:-:n a statesman, an ambassadcr. 
a supreme magistrate, in the most flourishing 
vanced Republic of the middle ages. Although partisan 
writers have often profanely misrepresent e senti- 



tfhe Influence of Dante. 1 1 

ments, and the intellectual despotism which since his 
time has presided over Italian literature has often con- 
cealed the philosophic and political ideas, which form 
the basis of his writings, beneath legends, idle interpre- 
tations, or questions of language and prosody, his tran- 
scendent genius has soared triumphant over all : and 
he stands forth as the philosopher whose intellect em- 
braced all the knowledge of his time ; the theologian 
who expressed in popular language the speculations of 
the divine science ; the reformer who first boldly at- 
tacked the papal institutions as baneful to the welfare 
of Italy, as well as to the progress of the human mind ; 
the statesman v/ho expounded an entire system of gov- 
ernment, corresponding to the highest exigencies of 
human society ; the patriot who sacrificed his life to 
the good of his country ; and, finally, the poet who 
sang the destiny of Italy and of humanity, made Chris- 
tianity the subject of a sublime epic, and Christian 
virtue the object of all action. He experienced every 
reverse of fortune. He was a fugitive and a wanderer 
in his native land, and died an exile from the city of his 
birth and of his love. He wore the crown of thorns, 
which, from Socrates to Milton, has been the lot of 
all who have striven to elevate the race, But he left 
in his poem a work as enduring as literature itself, 
which, while it echoed the moans of a Past that was 
dying forever, saluted in sublime strains the morning 
of a new Civilization. 

In the long period of her dismemberment, oppressed 



12 The "Influence of Dante. 

by tyranny, and distracted by civil convulsions, Italy has 
lived in the memory of her great poet, whose sublime 
song has preserved her hopes and aspirations. The 
idea of national unity, which found in him its first 
interpreter, descending through the ages, moved the 
enthusiasm of Cola di Rienzo ; awoke a patriotic 
chord in the lyre of Petrarch ; led the philosophic mind 
of Machiavelli to impart a more practical direction to 
the national sentiment \ kindled the genius of modern 
poets, from Alfieri to Monti, Niccolini, and Manzoni ; 
illumined the policy of princes, from the Visconti and 
the Medici to Victor Emanuel ; inspired the worship 
of patriots, philosophers, and warriors, from Campanella 
to Garibaldi, and the wisdom of statesmen, from Gero- 
lamo Morone to Cavour. And now, when the aspi- 
rations for which Dante lived and died are about to be 
realized, and the hopes nourished by the tears and the 
blood of generations begin to bear their fruit, regener- 
ated Italy, as she enters the new epoch of her history, 
on the return of the anniversary of his birth, rises, rev- 
erent and joyful, to do honor to him whose immortal 
muse has for so many centuries never ceased to call 
her from her grave. Now Florence, at whose hands 
he drank the bitter cup of his sorrow, on this day, when 
political necessity intrusts to her keeping the national 
Crown, offers to her Poet, as a solemn atonement for 
the cruel ingratitude with which she persecuted her 
noblest son, an Apotheosis worthy of his fame — a 
triumph more grand than that which he proudly fore- 



The Influence of Dante. 13 

told, when, crushed by the calamities of his country, 
and stung by the bitter sense of personal wrong, he 
sang in prophetic strain : — 

If e'er the sacred poem that hath made 
Both heaven and earth copartners in its toil, 
And with lean abstinence, through many a year, 
Faded my brow, be destined to prevail 
Over the cruelty which bars me forth 
Of the fair sheepfold, where, a sleeping lamb, 
The wolves set on and fain had worried me; 
With other voice, and fleece of other grain, 
I shall forthwith return ; and, standing up 
At my baptismal font, shall claim the wreath 
Due to the poet's temples."* 

* Paradiso, xxv. 



14 Birth of Dante. 



DANTE, a Christian name abbreviated from Du- 
rante, was born in Florence, May 14th, 1265, of 
the ancient and noble family of the Allighieri, believed 
to have been of Roman origin, but whose first ances- 
tor recorded in history was Cacciaguida, a Florentine 
Knight, who died in the Crusade led by the Emperor 
Conrad III., in the middle of the twelfth century. A 
son of Cacciaguida, having inherited the maiden name 
of his mother, Aldighieria degli Aldighieri, a daughter of 
a lawyer of that name at Ferrara, became the founder 
of the Allighieri of Florence. Of this family, Bellinci- 
one, the grandfather of Dante, had seven children, the 
eldest of whom, Allighierio degli Allighieri, a juriscon- 
sult and judge by profession, was the father of the poet. 
He was conspicuous among the leaders of the Guelph 
party, to which the Allighieri belonged ; and on its 
defeat at the battle of Monteaperti, he went into exile, 
thus preceding in the thorny path of proscription his 
most gifted son, the offspring of his second marriage, 
with Donna Bella. 

It was in the ninth year of his age that Dante first 
met Beatrice, who, according to the popular idea, 
inspired him with that transcendent love, the story of 
which he himself relates in the Vita Nuova, and which 
he has immortalized in the Divina Commedia. Con- 
cerning the nature of this love, there have been various 



Tfa Fita Ntiova. 15 

opinions among commentators. While some have re- 
garded it as the romantic devotion of an impassioned 
lover to an actual woman, by others Beatrice is con- 
sidered as a purely symbolic character. Boccaccio, who 
wrote the life of Dante a few years after his death, 
and, as might be supposed, takes the romantic view of 
the question, relates that this first meeting took place 
at the house of Folco Portinari, the father of Beatrice, 
a man greatly esteemed by his countrymen, who had 
invited his friends, with their children, to visit him on 
the occasion of the Spring festival which the Floren- 
tines were accustomed to celebrate on the first of May. 
He describes Beatrice, then only eight years old, as a 
child of surpassing beauty, possessed of such dignity of 
manner, and such a charm of expression, that she was 
looked upon almost as an angel ; and he adds that 
Dante, although so young, received her image into his 
heart with such affection, that from that day forward, 
never, as long as he lived, did it depart therefrom. 

The Vita Nuova, composed from 1293 to x 3° > con " 
tains thirty-one poems of different dates, accompanied 
by prose notes and interpretations, which connect them 
together, and explain their occasions and apparent mean- 
ing. It is essentially mystic in its character, and leaves 
the reader in doubt as to the nature of the love, wheth- 
er real or symbolical, which it portrays. Dante here 
describes his first meeting with Beatrice, when love 
became the master of his soul ; the devotion with which 
he followed her while a boy ; and how, after nine years, 



i6 tfhe Vita Nuova. 

this most gentle lady again appeared before him, clothed 
in pure white — and passing along the street, she turned 
her eyes towards the place where he stood very timidly, 
and by her ineffable courtesy saluted him with such 
grace, that, intoxicated with delight, he turned away 
from the crowd, and, betaking himself to his solitary 
chamber, he fell into a sweet slumber, in which a mar- 
vellous vision appeared to him. This vision he de- 
scribed in a sonnet, his first poetical composition, copies 
of which, as was often the custom in that age, were 
sent to the poets for their interpretation. The sonnet 
was well received, and poems in answer to it were 
returned — one particularly from Guido Cavalcanti, who, 
having thus made the acquaintance of Dante, conceived 
for him a friendship which terminated only with his 
death. Dante da Majano, however, another poet of 
some renown, showed very little sympathy with the 
mystic fancies of the lover, and, in a satirical response, 
advised the poet to seek the aid of the physician. 

Thus Dante, according to the letter of the Vita 
Nuova, continued to dream and to love — to gaze at 
Beatrice from a distance, and to compose poems in her 
praise — abstaining, however, from naming her, fearful 
lest he should offend her purity or compromise her 
honor. He tells us that he attempted to conceal his 
affection, even by feigning love for another lady, to 
whom he dedicated the songs intended for Beatrice, 
and that this fiction went on for several years ; and 
that at last Beatrice refused to salute him when they 



The Vita Nuova. 17 

met. Then he relates that he returned home, locked 
himself in his chamber, v/here his lamentations could 
not be heard, and gave himself up to despair, until at 
length he fell asleep, with tears in his eyes, like a child 
who had been beaten. Again, at a wedding festival, 
he was so overpowered by her presence, that he was 
led away by his friends ; and in answer to their inqui- 
ries as to what was the matter with him, he replied, 
" I have set my feet on that edge of life, beyond which 
no man can go with power to return." 

On one occasion, having met with some ladies who 
knew the secret of his heart, Dante was questioned as 
to why he loved Beatrice, since he could not bear her 
presence ; such a love, said they, must be indeed of a 
strange nature. " The object of my love," replied the 
poet, " was to obtain her salutation ; and in that was 
all my blessedness, and the end of all my desires. But 
since she was pleased to refuse me this, my Lord Love 
has in his mercy placed all my beatitude in that which 
cannot fail me — that is, in praising my glorious lady." 
To which one of the ladies answered : " If thou speak- 
est truly when thou sayest that thou lovest, thou must 
use the word love in another sense from that which it 
really means." 

In a canzone, he describes a dream, or vision, in 
which he beholds the dead body of Beatrice, surrounded 
by women with unbound hair, who abandon themselves 
to mourning, as they cover the beautiful features with a 
snowy veil. Dark clouds obscure the sun ; the stars 



18 c fhe Vita Nuova. 

are pale with grief. He beholds the slow and sorrowful 
funeral procession ; he sees a company of angels bear- 
ing away the soul of his beloved, enveloped in a white 
cloud. Tears gush from his closed eyes ; he cries, " O 
beautiful soul, how happy is he who can yet behold 
thee !" and he calls on Death to bear him away to 
Beatrice. The fair watchers at his bedside hasten to 
awaken him from his terrible dream, and ask the occa- 
sion of his grief. But in the sobs and groans with 
which he reveals it, they are unable to distinguish the 
name of Beatrice, and so the cause of his sorrow re- 
mained a poetical mystery to them. 

This vision was the foreshadowing of approaching 
reality ; for the actual Beatrice soon after died, at the 
age of twenty-four, having been married for a few 
years to Simone de' Bardi, afterwards conspicuous in 
the political party of the Neri, by which Dante was so 
bitterly persecuted. Alluding to her death, which took 
place on the ninth day of the ninth month of the year, 
he traces some mysterious connection between Beatrice 
and the number nine, u three being the factor of nine, 
the Author of miracles Himself being three, Father, 
Son, and Holy Spirit, who are three in one ; this lady 
was accompanied by the number nine, that it might be 
understood that she was a miracle, whose only root is 
the marvellous Trinity." He calls her the glorious 
lady of his mind, the daughter of God, not of man ; 
he says that her aspect caused death to every other 
thought, and that her presence preserved man from all 



Beatrice. 19 

wrong, destroyed all enmity and all sensuous impulses, 
kindled the flame of charity, and put to flight pride and 
wrath. 

That the Beatrice of the Vita Nuova is the same 
who reappears in the Divina Commedia, is evident from 
the conclusion, in which he says : — 

" Soon after this a wonderful vision appeared to me, 
in which I saw things which made me purpose to speak 
no more of this blessed one until I could more wor- 
thily treat of her. And to attain to this, I study to 
the utmost of my power, as she truly knoweth. So 
that, if it shall please Him through whom all things 
live, that my life be prolonged for some years, I hope 
to speak of her as never was spoken of any woman. 
And then may it please Him who is the Lord of Grace 
that my soul may go to behold the glory of its lady, 
the blessed Beatrice, who in glory looks upon the face 
of Him, qui est per omnia secula benedictus 7" 

Admitting that the Beatrice of Dante was the daugh- 
ter of Portinari, and not the mere personification of 
certain ideas so in accordance with the taste of the 
age, it is evident that the imagination of the poet trans- 
formed the actual woman into a pure ideal, and that 
little of her human nature remained. According to his 
own account, his relations with her were of the most 
formal kind. He first meets her at the age of nine 
years; nine years after, he passes her in the street, and 
in her salutation he experiences all the bliss a mortal 
can enjoy. At a wedding festival he is led away, over- 



20 Beatrice. 

powered by her presence. They meet again in public, 
and she refuses to recognize him. He expresses no 
sorrow or disappointment on the occasion of her mar- 
riage with another, and no desire for any more intimate 
relations with her himself. The Vita Nuova was com- 
posed during the most brilliant and active period of his 
life, while he was the recognized leader in political 
affairs, foreign ambassador, and chief magistrate of the 
Republic. Two years after the death of Beatrice, and 
while apparently lamenting her loss, he married Gemma 
Donati, who became the mother of his seven children ; 
and it seems highly improbable that, under these circum- 
stances, he should write a book with the sole object of 
relating his attachment to another woman, in a form 
which, if not intended in a symbolic sense, would 
have been scarcely reconcilable with that discretion and 
sound judgment by which he was so eminently dis- 
tinguished. 

The Vita Nuova, therefore, must be regarded, not as 
the record of the early love of the poet, but rather of 
that new Life, of that intellectual development, in which 
he became conscious of the indwelling of the divine life ; 
when, his spiritual insight becoming more acute, finite 
objects revealed themselves to his mind as mere shad- 
ows of an infinite reality, to which he longed to unite 
himself. 

But whatever semblance of personality may seem to 
attach to the Beatrice of the Vita Nuova, in the Convito 
and the Divina Commedia she becomes purely symbolic. 



Beatrice. 21 

The Convito, the continuation of the Vita Nuova, and 
intended especially to assist it, as Dante himself says, 
furnishes the true key for the interpretation ; and here, 
after speculating on love and philosophy symbolized in 
Beatrice, " From this," he writes, " it may be seen 
who this lady is, and why she is called Philosophy ;" 
by which he means the highest aspiration of the human 
soul, the bride of the reason, which, becoming identi- 
fied with it, elevates and sanctifies it ; in contradistinc- 
tion to the philosophy of the schools, which he em- 
bodies in another lady, whom he represents as having 
at one time attracted him. It is therefore probable 
that he adopted the name of Beatrice from its literal 
signification — Source of beatitude — rather than from any 
reference to the wife of Bardi. 

The symbolism of the Platonic writers derived its 
chief beauty from the degree of reality with which they 
invested their personifications, and this peculiarity was 
wonderfully intensified by the genius of Dante. Thus 
in the Divina Commedia, beholding Beatrice descend 
from heaven, Dante feels that love revive which thrilled 
him even in his childhood ; and when she lifts her veil, 
and reveals to him her second beauty, he regards her with 
that eagerness which a thirst of ten years had created. 
She reproaches him for his inconstancy, and says when she 
had changed her mortal for immortal he left her and gave 
himself to others, although nothing had been to him so 
pleasant as the contemplation of the beautiful limbs which 
enclosed her, and which are now scattered in dust. 



22 Beatrice. 

These and other passages which are so vividly expres- 
sive of her womanhood, like the passionate words of 
Solomon to Shulamith, the symbol of Divine Wisdom, 
are always interpreted in a purely symbolic sense by the 
early commentators, with the exception of Boccaccio. 
Pietro and Jacopo, the sons of the poet, while they 
make no allusion to Beatrice as a woman, expressly 
say, that by the thirst of ten years, Dante referred to 
that period when, immersed in political life, he longed 
for the study of divine things, in which alone he could 
find rest ; and that by his love for the beautiful limbs, 
he meant the supernal pleasure he had enjoyed in the 
meditation of the Scriptures. But Beatrice is not alone 
in her symbolic character ; she is surrounded by other 
ladies personifying virtues or ideas — the Blessed Lady in 
heaven, Lucia, Leah, Rachel, Matilda, and the nymphs 
of the terrestrial paradise. He himself expresses the 
necessity of introducing sensible images for the under- 
standing of transcendental ideas, and says : — 

For no other cause 
The Scripture, condescending graciously 
To your perception, hands and feet to God 
Attributes, nor so means : and Holy Church 
Doth represent with human countenance 
Gabriel, and Michael, and him who made 
Tobias whole. 

Thus Dante calls Beatrice the true praise of God, 
the glory of our kind, the fountain of all truth, and the 



Beatrice. 23 

splendor of eternal light. Her beauty none save her 
Maker can fully enjoy. She is Goddess — the prime 
delight of primal love. Her eyes are brighter than the 
stars ; to look at them fulfils all desire. Her aspect is 
that of virtue ; it reflects God himself. Possessing her, 
mankind possesses all things. On his being lost in the 
forest of barbarism, she descends from heaven to his 
succor; she absolves him of his sins; she reveals to 
him her beauty, which, for ten years of worldly life, 
has been concealed from him; she carries him with her 
from sphere to sphere; she unfolds to him the myste- 
ries of the Divine Mind; till, reaching the heights of 
the Empyrean, he beholds her on a throne of glory, and 
thus addresses her — not as a mortal woman, but as the 
grand personification of the Divine Wisdom : — 

ee O lady ! thou in whom my hopes have rest ; 
Who, for my safety, hast not scorned, in hell 
To leave the traces of thy footsteps marked; 
For all mine eyes have seen, I to thy power 
And goodness, virtue owe and grace. Of slave 
Thou hast to freedom brought me : and no means, 
For my deliverance apt, hast left untried. 
Thy liberal bounty still toward me keep: 
That, when my spirit, which thou madest whole, 
Is loosened from this body, it may find 
Favor with thee." So I my suit preferred: 
And she, so distant, as appeared, looked down, 
And smiled; then towards the eternal fountain turned."* 

* Paradiso, xxxi. ; Cf. also, Inferno, ii. ; Purgatorio, vi., xv., xviii., 
xxiii., xxvii., xxx., xxxi., xxxii. ; Paradiso, iii., iv., vii., xiv., xviii., xxiv., 
xxv., xxvii,, xxx, 



24 Early Education. 

On the death of his father, Dante was, while yet a 
boy, intrusted to the care of Brunetto Latini, a philoso- 
pher, historian, poet, and statesman, who held the office 
of Secretary to the Florentine Republic. Being a 
Guelph, he was forced into exile soon after the battle 
of Monteaperti, and retired to France, where he wrote 
Le Tresor, an Encyclopaedia of Mediaeval Science. He 
was also the author of the Tesoretto, a poem on the con- 
duct of life. After the triumph of Charles of Anjou 
and the fall of the Ghibelins, he returned to Florence, 
where he resumed his former office, and continued to 
exercise a considerable influence on the government 
until his death. Of him Filippo Villani says : — " He 
was worthy of being numbered with the most distin- 
guished orators of antiquity. He was witty, learned, 
and shrewd ; ever ready to use his abilities in the service 
of others ; polished in manners ; a very useful person ; 
and, by the practice of all the virtues, would have been 
most happy if he had only been able to support with 
equanimity the evils of his turbulent country." 

It was under the guidance of this eminent man that 
Dante received his early education and his first lessons 
in the art of government. He acquired the knowledge 
of several languages — Latin, French, and Provencal — 
and made himself acquainted with the various Italian 
dialects. He studied the Latin poets, and, above all, 
Virgil, whom he loved to address as the famous sage, 
his sweet and true father ; and to him, next to Beatrice, 
he gave the most prominent place in the Commedia. 



Philosophic Education. 2$ 

Nor did he confine himself to poetry. Grammar, 
rhetoric, history, dialectics, geometry, music, and as- 
tronomy in turn occupied his attention, and he is rep- 
resented as the most powerful orator of his time. 
Contemporary with Cimabue and Giotto, living in the 
dawn of modern art, a nature so broad and sympathetic 
as that of Dante could not fail to be greatly affected by 
its potent influence. Many of the most magnificent 
structures of Florence were erected in his time ; and 
the traveller of to-day may stand on the spot indicated 
by the inscription Sasso di Dante, inserted in the neighbor- 
ing wall, where, according to tradition, it was his 
delight to sit and watch from day to day the growing 
beauty of the Duomo. Leonardo of Arezzo, his second 
biographer after Boccaccio, tells us that he was an ex- 
cellent draughtsman, and he himself relates, in his Vita 
Nuova, that on a certain occasion he occupied himself 
in drawing figures of angels. By some of his biogra- 
phers he is represented as the pupil of Cimabue. He 
was certainly the friend of the artists, the painters, and 
the musicians of his age : among them were Casella, 
who set to music several of his songs ; Oderigi da 
Gubbio, the celebrated miniature-painter ; and Giotto, 
who, according to Vasari, was assisted in his profession 
by the advice of Dante and by his designs. He took a 
leading part in the love-fetes and brilliant festivities to 
which Florence, though in the midst of civil war, seems 
to have been much devoted. He delighted in the prac- 
4 



26 Philosophic Education. 

tice of all the elegant arts, and was the most accom- 
plished man among his contemporaries. 

Having passed his youth in these preparatory studies, 
he soon enlarged the sphere of his education, and sought 
alleviation from his sorrow for the mystical death of 
Beatrice in the study of philosophy. " I set myself," 
he says, cc to read that book of Boethius, but little 
known, with which he . had consoled himself in prison 
and in exile ; and hearing that Tully had written a book 
treating of friendship, in which he had addressed some 
words of consolation to Laelius, a most excellent man, 
on the death of Scipio, his friend, I set myself to read 
that ; and although at first it was difficult to understand, 
I at length succeeded so far as my knowledge of the 
language and such little capacity as I had enabled me ; 
by means of which capacity I had already, like one 
dreaming, discovered many things, as may be seen in 
the Vita Nuova. And as it might happen that a man 
seeking silver should, beyond his expectation, find gold, 
which a hidden chance presents to him, not perhaps 
without divine direction, so I, who sought for consola- 
tion, found not only a remedy for my tears, but also 
acquaintance with authors, with knowledge, and with 
books."* 

Through the study of philosophy his intellectual 
faculties were quickened, his spiritual insight was stimu- 
lated, and the moral bearing of all achievements became 
more defined. He was assiduous in his attendance at 

% Convito. 



Philosophic Education. 27 

the lectures and discussions of the Schools ; he turned 
his thoughts to the great problems of science with an 
intensity that no outward tumult could disturb, and 
devoted himself to study with such perseverance, that 
his sight at an early age became greatly impaired. 
Thirty months had scarcely passed from his reading 
of Cicero and Boethius, when, as he says, philosophy 
became the mistress of his soul, which, as we have seen, 
he delighted to symbolize in Beatrice, and to whose 
worship he henceforth dedicated his life. 

To complete his education, like the sages of old, he 
now travelled abroad — visited the Universities of Bo- 
logna, Padua, Cremona, Naples, and, at a later period, 
that of Paris. In these travels he became familiar with 
the prominent men of the time, and the prevailing sys- 
tems of philosophy. Although he may have derived 
some ideas directly from the East, through the ambassa- 
dors of the Asiatic monarchies, who in the thirteenth 
century came to Rome, and from the missionaries 
returned from those countries, he chiefly owed his 
philosophic culture to the study of the Greek writers. 
These he probably did not read in the original, as his 
knowledge of the Greek language seems to have been 
limited. But, as far as regarded Plato, and through him 
Pythagoras and Socrates, Dante became acquainted 
with their doctrines in the Latin translations, particu- 
larly through the writings of Cicero, that great eclectic 
who preserved so much of the wisdom of the ancients ; 
and through those of the Fathers of the Church, St. Au- 



28 Philosophic Education. 

gustine, and other ecclesiastical writers of the Platonic 
school. Yet, while he was akin to Plato in the general 
tendency of his thoughts, and in the lofty symbolism by 
means of which he expressed them, he derived scientific 
ideas and forms from Aristotle, whose works he knew 
through Latin versions, the schoolmen, and the great 
Commentary of Averrhoes, whose speculations he often 
made his own. Ontologic and synthetic with Plato, he 
was psychologic and analytic with Aristotle, under whose 
guidance he anatomized nature, and examined the struc- 
ture of the human mind and the organic construction of 
science, thus acquiring from the Peripatetic method dis- 
cipline and strength, power of logic, of systematic clas- 
sification and generalization. This mingling of the 
Idealism of Plato with the Realism of Aristotle is sym- 
bolized in the Commedia, where he points out in Limbo 
the illustrious shades of the two philosophers, sitting side 
by side above the ancient masters of science, dividing 
the royalty of the human intellect. 

As in the study of ancient philosophy Dante derived 
his inspiration from the Academy and the Lyceum, so 
in theology, after the Scriptures and the Fathers, he 
revered as his teachers St. Bonaventura and St. Thomas 
Aquinas ; the one the representative of the Realism, 
the other of the Idealism, of the middle ages. While 
from familiarity with the writings of the former his 
tendency to mysticism and symbolism was increased, 
from the study of the works of the latter his faculties of 
analysis, concentration, and encyclopaedic combination 



tfhe Convito. 29 

were strengthened. His scientific system was the result 
of that eclectic power by which his mind was so distin- 
guished, and through which, assimilating the elements 
of various doctrines, he produced a system which em- 
braced the knowledge of the past and of his own age. 

The Convito, or Banquet, a commentary on some of his 
poems, and the first philosophic treatise written in Italian 
prose, was composed during his exile. Although unfin- 
ished, and burdened by allegories and scholastic forms, it 
is characterized by depth of thought, purity of language, 
and beauty of style. It is particularly interesting for its 
allusions to the political parties and condition of Italy. 
In glancing at the general views of the poet on philoso- 
phy and its various departments, we shall follow the 
Convito, adding a few illustrations from the Commedia, to 
which that work may be considered as the philosophic 
introduction. 

Philosophy, with Dante, consists in the loving practice 
of that wisdom which has its infinite source in the 
Deity, from whom it is reflected on other intelligences 
in degrees proportioned to their love. It rests on truth, 
and leads to virtue and to the possession of the supreme 
good. " How blind are those," he exclaims, " who 
never lift their eyes to the contemplation of that daugh- 
ter of God ! She is the mother of all things, for in the 
creation of the world she stood before the Divine Mind. 
c When the Lord prepared the heavens I was there,' she 
says ; c when he set a compass upon the face of the 
5* 



30 His Philosophy. 

depths ; when he established the clouds above ; when 
he straightened the fountains of the deep ; when he gave 
to the sea his decree, that the waters should not pass his 
commandment ; when he appointed the foundations of the 
earth ; then I was by him, as one brought up with him, 
and I was daily his delight, rejoicing always before him.' " 
Having thus defined philosophy, Dante next con- 
siders how philosophic truth may be attained. On one 
side man is naturally impelled to acquire knowledge ; on 
the other, his intellectual power is limited. 

Since from things sensible alone we learn 
That which, digested rightly, after turns 
To intellectual/* 

how then shall he rise to the possession of those truths 
which, surpassing all experimental knowledge, are the 
foundation of philosophy ? The poet solves this ques- 
tion, on w^ich later philosophers have differed so widely, 
by asserting that some knowledge of things that do not 
come under the cognizance of the senses may be gained 
through " that inward light which manifests itself be- 
neath the veil of external objects, and which, although 
not seen, is felt. The soul, imprisoned within the organs 
of the body, perceives that light, as a man in closing his 
eyes feels the action of the luminous air through that 
dim splendor which still penetrates his sight." Thus he 
admits the existence of a transcendental power consti- 
tuting the very essence of the human intellect, although 

* Paradiso, iv. 



His Philosophy. 31 

obscured by earthly conditions, and places the principle 
of knowledge in God — 

In Him, who is truth's mirror : and Himself 
Parhelion unto all things, and naught else 
To Him.* 

In the investigation of truth, Dante expressly incul- 
cates the necessity of following the method of nature, 
proceeding from the known to the unknown ; from what 
is evident to that which is obscure. In thus establish- 
ing induction as the basis of scientific method, he 
anticipated Lord Bacon, whom he also preceded in 
enumerating the causes of error and its remedies. The 
first he ascribes to the senses, bad education, bad habits, 
defective intellect, and the predominance of the pas- 
sions. He laments the errors which spring from popu- 
lar prejudice, and says that those who follow current 
opinion without regard to its merits, are like the blind 
led by the blind, or like sheep which follow each other 
without discerning the cause of their movement. As 
to the remedies which preserve the mind from error, he 
holds that the senses should be distrusted in all things 
which are beyond their capacity : — 

If mortals err 
In their opinion, when the key of sense 
Unlocks not, surely wonder's weapon keen 
Ought not to pierce thee ; since thou find'st the wings 
Of reason to pursue the senses' flight 
Are short, f 

* Paradiso, xxvi. f Paradiso, ii. 



32 His Philosophy. 

Experience, u the fountain whence our arts derive 
their streams," must be carefully consulted, and too 
much caution cannot be exercised in forming opinions — 

And let this 
Henceforth be lead unto thy feet, to make 
Thee slow in motion, as a weary man, 
Both to the " yea" and to the " nay" thou seest not. 
For he among the fools is down full low, 
Whose affirmation, or denial, is 
Without distinction, in each case alike. 
Since it befalls, that in most instances 
Current opinion leans to false : and then 
Affection bends the judgment to her ply.* 

He enforces a stern opposition to vulgar prejudice, 
and urges the control of the passions through devotion 
to wisdom. Then the clouds which obscure the in- 
tellect will gradually disappear, and, ascending above 
all doubt, it will attain the possession of truth, in which 
alone it can find rest. 

Well I discern, that by that truth alone 
Enlightened, beyond which no truth may roam, 
Our mind can satisfy her thirst to know ; 
Therein she resteth, e'en as in his lair 
The wild beast, soon as she hath reached that bound 
And she hath power to reach it ; else desire 
Were given to no end. And thence doth doubt 
Spring, like a shoot, around the stock of truth ; 
And it is nature which, from height to height, 
On to the summit prompts us.f 

* Paradiso, xiii. f Paradiso, iv. 



His Philosophy. 33 

The cosmology of Dante is founded on the Chris- 
tian doctrine of the Divine creation and the astronomical 
system of Ptolemy, embellished by ideas borrowed from 
the Greek and Arabian philosophers. The universe is 
the offspring of an infinite Power, which, subsisting in 
itself, consciously knows and loves itself, and in the 
same act manifests itself through new natures, which 
become the mirror of its splendor. The poet thus 
describes the origin of all ideas and existences — from one 
and unalterable substance : — 

That which dies not, 
And that which can die, are but each the beam 
Of that idea, which our Sovereign Sire 
Engendereth loving ; for that lively light ; 
Which passeth from his splendor, not disjoined 
From him, nor from his love triune with them, 
Doth, through his bounty, congregate itself, 
Mirrored, as 'twere, in new existences ; 
Itself unalterable, and ever one.* 

Creation he considers eternal, following in this respect 
the doctrines of Plato and Aristotle, which were also 
accepted by the early Fathers of the Greek Church, 
who believed that an infinite and immutable Being 
could not remain solitary for all eternity, but that he 
ever expressed himself in outward manifestations. The 
reason of the creation being eternal, the creation 
itself must of necessity have the same character. "As 
the Infinite is not made up of finites," says Barlow, 

* Paradiso, xiii. 



34 His Philosophy. 

"neither is eternity composed of times, but is antece- 
dent and subsequent to them. Duration, as compre- 
hended by man, is time; but with God, is eternity. So, 
before all time- — before that which had a beginning, or 
can have an end — the Infinite cause of all existences 
produced from Himself, in virtue of the perfection of 
his Divine nature, orders of intellectual beings approxi- 
mate to his own. There never was, nor could be, an 
abstract eternal Being, dwelling apart from his creative 
energy. God, as correctly conceived by the human 
mind, is essentially the Creator. God, however, did 
not exercise his creative power of necessity, as under- 
stood by man; but out of the abundance of his love, 
and to manifest his glory. He created it out of the 
perfection of his own Divine Nature, which includes its 
essential activity and perfect liberty."* 

Not that God from eternity created the world, as it 
appears, in time. Following the Aristotelian philoso- 
phy, Dante affirms that the eternal act of the Creator 
brought forth into existence primeval matter — -the An- 
gels and the human soul, understanding for the former 
a universal principle, shapeless and confused, without 
quality of form, which, in its perpetual evolutions, re- 
ceives all qualities and forms. " All things," says 
Daniello in his Commentary, u consist of matter and 
form. Matter is homogeneous, always the same, and 
ready to receive diverse forms; form is that which gives 

* See €i Critical, Historical, and Philosophical Contributions to the 
Study of the Divina Commedia" by H. C. Barlow. 



His Philosophy. 35 

existence to any thing." Perfection consists in pure 
act — that is, the full identification of form with matter. 
Hence, " the angelic substances occupy the upper portion 
of the intellectual world, because angelic creatures are 
always in pure act and perfect, but not in potentia or 
pure capacities, as are inferior things which occupy the 
lower portion; while man, who combines potentiality 
with form or act, holds the middle part, and unites 
together both the extremes." These ideas are thus 
expressed in the Commedla: — 

Not for increase to himself 
Of good, which may not be increased, but forth 
To manifest his glory by its beams; 
Inhabiting his own eternity. 
Beyond time's limit or what bound soe'er 
To circumscribe his being; as he willed, 
Into new natures, like unto himself, 
Eternal love unfolded: nor before, 
As if in dull inaction, torpid, lay, 
For, not in process of before or aft, 
Upon these waters moved the Spirit of God. 
Simple and mixed, both form and substance, forth 
To perfect being started, like three darts 
Shot from a bow three-corded. And as ray 
In crystal, glass, and amber, shines entire, 
E'en at the moment of its issuing; thus 
Did, from the eternal Sovereign, beam entire 
His threefold operation, at one act 
Produced coeval. Yet, in order, each 
Created his due station knew: those highest, 
Who pure intelligence were made; mere power, 



36 His Philosophy. 

The lowest; in the midst, bound with strict league, 
Intelligence and power, unsevered bond.* 

From primeval matter the heavenly bodies, the body 
of man, and the earth were developed, when the uni- 
verse appeared girdled by the zone of infinite space, 
within which, in accordance with a universal law, the 
heavenly spheres revolve round the earth, which lies at 
the centre of the whole. God, a portion of the angelic 
natures and of the spirits of the blessed, dwell in the 
Empyrean, while others again inhabit the planets, which 
they influence, and over whose movements they preside. 
Here the poet mingles the astronomical ideas of his time 
with the doctrine of Averrhoes on the organism of the 
universe, which consisted, according to Renan, in a 
heaven eternal and incorruptible, composed of many 
orbs, which represented the members essential to its 
life. Heaven, the most noble of the animated beings, 
is moved by a soul, which, receiving its energy from 
the prime mover, is as the heart, whose vital influence 
is imparted to all the orbs of the cosmologic system. 
Each of these orbs has its special intelligence, which is 
its form, just as the rational soul is the form of man. 
These intelligences, hierarchically subordinate, consti- 
tute the chain of movers which propagate the move- 
ment of the first sphere down to the others. The 
moving power which they obey is desire, and, to attain 
the highest good, they move perpetually, thus manifest- 

* Paradiso, xxix. 



His Philosophy. 37 

ing the desire which actuates them. Their intellect is 
always in act, uninfluenced by imagination and sensi- 
bility. They know themselves, and are conscious of r 
whatever passes in the spheres beneath them, so that 
the first intelligence has the complete knowledge of all 
that occurs in the universe.* 

Man is the noblest of all creatures under heaven, for 
he partakes more of the Divine Nature. " He compre- 
hends within himself," says Dante, "all the faculties 
which belong to inferior beings, and is, besides, endowed 
with that direct ray of supreme intelligence which ren- 
ders him a divine animal. His body, the instrument of 
a divine virtue in its exquisite organization, is superior 
to those of the other sentient beings. The human soul 
particularly delights to express itself in the mouth and 
in the eyes, the most spiritual portions of the human 
body — the windows through which shines forth the 
woman who dwells within the body. Inward emotions 
appear through the senses, as colors through glass. 
The mind, the deity of the soul, manifests itself through 
its intellectual faculties, which may be reduced to those 
of judging, reasoning, inventing, and of scientific con- 
struction. Through them man is essentially a distinct 
nature ; and although animals may show signs of intelli- 
gence, these are not true expressions of that power, 
as the image in the mirror is not the person which it 
represents." 

* See " Averroes et FAverroisme," par Renan. 



38 His Philosophy. 

The question of the origin of the human soul, which 
has perplexed philosophers of all times, Dante solves by 
referring it to a direct manifestation of God to the sen- 
tient principle, which, originating in generation, devel- 
ops into an intellectual being when the primal mover 
breathes into it the breath of intellectual life. 

Soon as in the embryo, to the brain 
Articulation is complete, then turns 
The primal Mover with a smile of joy 
On such great work of nature ; and imbreathes 
New spirit replete with virtue,, that what here 
Active it finds, to its own substance draws ; 
And forms an individual soul, that lives, 
And feels, and bends reflective on itself.* 

This manifestation of the Deity, although obscurely 
revealed to the soul, renders it intelligent. It is in 
virtue of reason, says Dante, that the human spirit 
partakes of the Divine Nature, under the form of an 
eternal intelligence. Yet the power of knowledge thus 
conferred is felt only in its effects, in which alone it can 
be observed. Man cannot know, a priori, from whence 
his intellect derives its primal ideas, any mqre than he 
can know the origin of his first affections. It is only 
through induction that he discovers the source of his 
intellectual and moral powers, in that breath of the 
Divine Spirit to which he alludes in the verses 
above quoted. An impersonal divine light is naturally 

* Purgatorio, xxv. 



His Philosophy. 39 

resplendent to all spiritual creatures, the personality of 
whose intellect is created by the communication of 
that very element. Dante here alludes to the theory of 
Averrhoes, who, disjoining the active from the passive 
intellect, destroyed the very nature of intellectual 
powers : — 

Spirit, substantial form, with matter joined, 

Not in confusion mixed, hath in itself 

Specific virtue of that union born, 

Which is not felt except it work, nor proved, 

But through effect, as vegetable life 

By the green leaf. From whence his intellect 

Deduced its primal notices of things, 

Man therefore knows not, or his appetites 

Their first affections ; such in you, as zeal 

In bees to gather honey.* 

How babe of animal becomes, remains 

For thy considering. At this point more wise 

Than thou has erred, making the soul disjoined 

From passive intellect.f 

The subject of the immortality of the soul, the 
necessary result of that divine manifestation which ren- 
ders it an intellectual being, is treated at some length in 
the Convito, and is thus alluded to -in the Commedia: — 

Know ye not 
That we are v/orms, yet made at last to form 
The winged insect, imped with angel plumes, 
That to Heaven's justice unobstructed soars ?J 



* Purgatorio 



), xviii. f Ibid., xxv. J Ibid., x. 



40 His Philosophy. 

Call to mind from whence ye sprang. 
Ye were not formed to live the life of brutes, 
But virtue to pursue, and knowledge high.* 

A lofty idea of the moral destiny of the race appears 
through all the writings of Dante. Moral perfection, 
in his view, is the great object for which man was 
created. His mystical love for Beatrice — divine ethics 
or wisdom — the prominent part he gives to that sym- 
bol — the symbolic virtues by which he surrounds it, 
and the manifest purpose of all his works, show that 
with him moral results had a pre-eminent importance. 
"He is not to be called a true lover of wisdom," he 
writes, "who loves it for the sake of gain, as do law- 
yers, physicians, and almost all persons who study, not 
in order to know, but to acquire riches or advance- 
ment, and who would not persevere in study should 
you give them what they desire to gain by it. As true 
friendship between men consists in each wholly loving 
the other, the true philosopher loves every part of wis- 
dom, and wisdom every part of the philosopher, inas- 
much as it draws all to itself, and allows no one of his 
thoughts to wander to other things." 

Love, with him, is the perfection of moral life, the 
prime mover, the source of every virtue, the universal 
law which presides over all organic and rational 
development. The origin of the human soul, its natu- 
ral impulse toward the Creator, and the influence of 
finite objects in leading it astray, he thus describes : — 

* Inferno, xxvi. 



His Philosophy. 41 

Forth from his plastic hand, who charmed beholds 

Her image ere she yet exist, the soul 

Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively, 

Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods ; 

As artless, and as ignorant of aught, 

Save that her Maker being one who dwells 

With gladness ever, willingly she turns 

To whate'er yields her joy. Of some slight good 

The flavor soon she tastes ; and, snared by that, 

With fondness she pursues it; if no guide 

Recall, no rein direct her wandering course.* 

Free will, according to Dante, is the foundation of 
all merit: — 

Ye have that virtue in you whose just voice 
Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep 
The threshold of assent. Here is the source 
Whence cause of merit in you is derived. 
E'en as the affections good or ill she takes, 
Or severs, winnow'd, as the chaff. f 

If this were so, 

Free choice in you were none ; nor justice would 
There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill. 
I£ then, the present race of mankind err, 
Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there. J 

Those men 

Who, reasoning, went to depth profoundest, marked 
That innate freedom ; and were thence induced 
To leave their moral teaching to the world. § 

* Purgatorio, xvi. f Ibid. J Ibid. J Ibid., xviii. 



42 Dante as a Naturalist. 

Man is destined to reach his highest development 
through the union of his soul with the Supreme Good, 
which he can only accomplish by rendering his will 
perfectly conformable to the divine will, as manifested 
in that harmony which makes "the universe resemble 
God." In an age of scholastic dogmatism, Dante thus 
laid down those great principles derived from the Gos- 
pel, which have been too often disregarded; and as- 
serted that true religion consisted not in forms, but in 
the constant exercise of duty, and in the perpetual 
effort to ascend to the heaven of ideal perfection, by 
assimilating to our spirit the Spirit of God which 
dwells within our hearts : — 

But lo ! of those 
Who call "Christ, Christ !" there shall be many found, 
In judgment, farther off from him by far, 
Than such to whom his name was never known. 
Christians like these the ^Ethiop shall condemn, 
When that the two assemblages shall part ; 
One rich eternally, the other poor.* 



As a naturalist, Dante had an exquisite sentiment of 
the phenomena of terrestrial life ; and from the acute- 
ness of his mental insight, and his passionate study of 
nature, he had many glimpses of physical truths, which 
we find in curious hints as to causes and facts, which 
have only been established by the scientific researches 
& f modern times. Beneath the surface of his poetical 

* Paradiso, xix. 



Dante as a Naturalist. 43 

fictions his Cosmos presents something of that unity and 
universality of plan which characterize the actual crea- 
tion; and in the innumerable co-ordinate intelligences 
which he represents as presiding over the order of the 
universe, we see symbols of the permanent laws of 
nature, and of the correlative forces on which that 
order depends. The principle of love — with him the 
law of all existences — may be interpreted as a poetical 
allusion to the great law of attraction ; and had Newton 
read the words of Virgil, when, having passed through the 
centre of the earth, he said that they had overpassed — 

That point to which from every part is dragged 
All heavy substance,* 

they might have suggested to the mind of that great 
philosopher the law of gravitation more strikingly than 
the accidental fall of an apple. The distinct allusion 
to the existence of a Western World, in the episode — in 
which Ulysses narrates his wanderings through the sea, 
when, after passing the Straits of Gibraltar, and sailing 
westward for five months, he discovered a new land — 
may have had its influence with Columbus, to whom 
the Commedia was doubtless familiar, and thus Dante 
may have indirectly contributed to the discovery of the 
New World.f 

In Canto XXV. of the Purgatorio the theory of gen- 
eration is described, and the poet says : — 

With animation now endued, 
The active virtue (differing from a plant 

* Inferno, xxxiv. f Ibid., xxvi. 



44 Dante as a Naturalist 

No further, than that this is on the way, 

And at its limit that) continues yet 

To operate, that now it moves, and feels, 

As sea-sponge clinging to the rock ; and there 

Assumes the organic powers its seed conveyed. 

This is the moment, son ! at which the virtue, 

That from the generating heart proceeds, 

Is pliant and expansive ; for each limb 

Is in the heart by forgeful nature planned.* 

" To appreciate," says Barlow, " the physiological 
science shown by Dante in his masterly resume of the 
formation of and development of a human being, from 
the first mysterious movings of embryonic life to the 
completion of the foetal economy and the birth of an 
immortal soul, we must go back to that period when 
little or nothing more was known of the function of 
generation than what had been said by Aristotle, and 
repeated by his commentator Averrhoes. Had the 
poet been professor of physiology in the University of 
Bologna, and desired to preserve a memorial in his im- 
mortal work of the state of the science at that period, 
he could not have given a better account of it, or 
shown more judgment in the selection of his facts ; for 
not only does he avoid many of those errors into which 
his contemporaries and successors fell, but he seems to 
anticipate much of that true science which the latest 
investigations have brought to light, especially in refer- 
ence to the development of embryonic life. With 
regard to this subject we have learned to search out 

* Purgatorio, xxv. 



Dante as a Naturalist. , 45 

their progressive changes, and to scrutinize the secret 
operations of nature ; but we cannot give a better or 
more philosophical account of the primary agent con- 
cerned than was given by Dante when, going to the 
fountain-head of life, he called the generating fluid c per- 
fect blood' — 

" Which by the thirsty veins is ne'er imbibed, 
And rests as food superfluous to be taken 
From the replenished table, in the heart 
Derives effectual virtue that informs 
The several human limbs."* 

" The verses indicating the changes which the human 
embryo undergoes contain," continues Barlow, " a 
correct summary of the general law of the changes now 
known to take place in embryonic life, and which the 
French physiologists call le princlpe dcs arrets de deve- 
loppement ; through which, a,s Milne Edwards describes 
it, each organic being, in its development, undergoes 
profound and various modifications, changing the char- 
acter of its anatomic structure and its vital faculties as 
it passes from the embryonic state to the condition of 
a perfect animal." The same writer points out the 
manner in which Dante expresses the physiological fact 
noted by Elliotson, that " however a human embryo is 
always a human embryo, still man is at first a kind of 
zoophyte." 

In Canto V. of the Purgatorio, Buonconte da Monte- 
feltro, relating how his body w 7 as borne away by 

* Purgatorio, xxv. 



46 Dante as a Naturalist. 

the overflowing of the stream near which he lay, the 
poet thus, through him, explains the phenomenon of the 
rain : — 

Thou know'st how in the atmosphere collects 
That vapor dank, returning into water 
Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it. 
That evil will, which in his intellect 
Still follows evil, came ; and raised the wind 
And smoky mist, by virtue of the power 
Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon 
As day was spent, he covered o'er with cloud, 
From Pratomagno to the mountain range ; 
And stretched the sky above ; so that the air 
Impregnate changed to water. Fell the rain ; 
And to the fosses came all that the land 
Contained not ; and, as mightiest streams are wont, 
To the great river, with such headlong sweep, 
Rushed, that naught stayed its course. 

" Had Dante," writes Barlow, alluding to this pas- 
sage, " been thoroughly conversant with the modern 
theory of rain, he could not have expressed himself in 
more accurate language than this. His knowledge of 
physical science appears to have been much in advance 
of that of the age in which he lived, and of his more 
immediate successors. The mediaeval meteorology of 
his commentators reads almost as nonsense in compari- 
son with the few masterly words of the poet on the 
same subject. In the description of the storm of rain 
which caused the Archiano to overflow, and bear away 
the dead body of Buonconte to the Arno, where, 



Dante as a Naturalist. ^Tj 

whirled along its banks and rolled over its bed, the 
corpse became buried in the debris brought down by 
the river, Dante not only describes the circumstances 
with the pen of a poet, but, like a high-priest of nature, 
explains their causes also. In the words of Buonconte 
we have an accurate sketch of the formation of clouds 
and rain, by the mingling together of currents of air of 
different temperatures saturated with aqueous vapor. 
.... When rain falls from the upper region of the air 
we observe, at a considerable altitude, a thin, light veil, 
or a hazy turbidness ; as this increases, the lower clouds 
become diffused in it, and form a uniform sheet. Such 
is the Stratus cloud, described by Dante as covering the 
valley from Pratomagno to the ridge on the opposite 
side above Camaldoli. This cloud is a widely- 
extended, horizontal sheet of vapor, increasing from 
below and lying on or near the earth's surface. In the 
description given by Dante, the valley became covered 
in its entire breadth, so that to the cloud of vapor 
formed below was added the cloud of vapor precipitated 
from above ; the air impregnate changed to water, and 
a deluge of rain followed." 

The same distinguished Dantophlist calls attention to 
the passage where the poet refers to the visive power 
of the mole : — 

Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'er 
Hast on an Alpine height been taken by cloud, 
Through which thou saw'st no better than the mole 
Doth through opacous membrane.* 

* Purgatorio, xvii. 



48 Dante as a Naturalist. 

" In the amount of vision here ascribed to the mole," 
says Barlow, " we have another instance how much 
Dante's knowledge as a naturalist surpassed that of his 
contemporaries and successors. Until very lately, the 
mole was considered to be blind. It was reserved for 
modern science to demonstrate the accuracy of Dante 
and the truth of his description. Not only has the 
mole eyes, and nervous filaments passing to them from 
the base of the brain, but it can see at least to distin- 
guish light from darkness, which is all the power of 
vision the natural habits of the animal require." 

Barlow points out other passages which forcibly illus- 
trate the insight of the poet into the mystery of final 
causes. " In the verses of the Paradiso, when speak- 
ing of love, he says : — 

This to the lunar sphere directs the fire, 
This moves the heart of mortal animals, 
This the brute earth together knits and binds :* 

Three physical principles, combustion, vital action, 
and attraction of cohesion, both of molecules and masses, 
are expressed in a poetical manner, which almost seems 
to anticipate in part the results of modern researches ; 
for it matters little . by what names things are called, 
provided we understand what is meant ; and where 
language is scarcely adequate to convey the whole idea 
we desire to express, there must always be a surplus 
sense, which the understanding will entertain according 
to its capacity." He refers also to the indications of 

* Paradiso, i. 



Dante as a Naturalist. 49 

the meteoric phenomena of shooting or falling stars and 
of heat lightning, in that passage where Dante speaks of 
the fiery vapors which with such speed cut through the 
serene air at fall of night ;* and to the Southern Cross, 
which the poet describes in Canto I. of the Purga- 
torio : — 

To the right hand I turned, and fixed my mind 
On the other pole attentive, where I saw 
Four stars ne'er seen before save by the ken 
Of the first people. 

cc The principal stars of this constellation," says 
Barlow, " were known when Dante wrote, and in the 
description of them here given there is a reality attested 
by all who have seen them. They were once visible 
in our northern hemisphere. Without the aid of the 
telescope they appear as four stars, three of them of 
the first magnitude. In consequence of the pre- 
cession of the equinoxes, writes Humboldt, the 
starry heavens are continually changing their aspect 
from every portion of the earth's surface. The early 
races of mankind beheld in the far north the glorious 
constellation of the southern hemisphere rise before 
them, which, after remaining long invisible, will again 
appear in those latitudes after a lapse of thousands of 
years. The Southern Cross began to become invisible 
in 52 30' north latitude, twenty-nine hundred years 
before our era, since, according to Galle, this constel- 
lation might previously have reached an altitude of 

* Purgatorio, v. 



50 Dante as a Naturalist. 

more than io°. When it disappeared from the hori- 
zon of the countries of the Baltic, the great Pyramid 
of Cheops had already been erected more than five 
hundred years. Dante, therefore, most truly says 
that those stars were never seen before save by the 
first people; meaning by these words not Adam and 
Eve, as some writers would still have us believe, but 
the early races which inhabited Europe and Asia." 

The author to whom we are indebted for the above 
quotations continues his scientific analysis of the Com- 
media, and, commenting on the following verses, — 

Mark the sun's heat ; how that to wine doth change, 
Mixed with the moisture filtered through the vine, — * 

" It has been supposed," he remarks, " that Dante 
drew his theory of wine from a passage of Cicero, in his 
Cato Major de Senectute, repeated by Galileo three hun- 
dred years later. But Cicero says no more than what 
every vine-dresser from the days of Noah was per- 
fectly aware of, that the sun ripened the grapes, and 
that his warmth was necessary to the elaboration of 
their juice. Of the chemical action which then takes 
place, as also of what occurs in vinous fermentations, 
neither Cicero nor Dante nor Galileo was aware. 
But Dante wisely conceived that c the great minister 
of nature' acted the chief part in the transmutation, 
and the poet was right. Without moisture and heat 
there would be no life. The sun is the great vivifying 

* Purgatorio, xxv. 



His Patriotism. 51 

agent, and the absorption of his rays effects the change 
which the poet describes ; so that, as modern science 
has demonstrated, in quaffing the generous liquid thence 
derived we are actually drinking down sunbeams, and our 
souls are cheered and warmed by their inward effects as 
much as our bodily members are comforted by their out- 
ward radiance." He also alludes to the interesting fact 
in vegetable physiology, that flowers are only metamor- 
phosed leaves, the discovery of which is commonly attrib- 
uted to Goethe, but was first observed by Dante, and ex- 
pressed in these words : — " Flowers and other leaves."* 
Thus Dante was the representative not only of the 
art and poetry, but also of the science of his age ; and 
well might Raphael, in his admirable fresco of the 
Holy Sacrament, which every pilgrim of the beautiful 
has admired in the galleries of the Vatican, place promi- 
nent among the popes and the doctors of the Church, 
then the guardians of science and patrons of art, the 
noble figure of the poet, radiant with the severe light of 
philosophy, his glorious head girt with the laurel crown. 

But genius, acquirements, and accomplishments were, 
with Dante, subordinate to the duties which bound him 
to his country. He felt, with Cicero, that devotion to 
the land of our birth excels and comprehends all other 
affections ; and this sentiment was early expressed in 
his life. At the age of twenty-four years we find him 
in the battle of Campaldino, in which the Florentine 

*. Purgatorio, xxxiL 



52 Florentine Constitution. 

army, commanded by Corso Donati, the leader of the 
Guelph party, defeated the Ghibelins of Arezzo. 
Dante fought valiantly in the foremost ranks of the 
cavalry led by Vieri dei Cerchi, who afterwards became 
the chief of the party of the Bianchi, with which the 
poet was for a few years associated. He himself al- 
ludes to this engagement in the Commedia; and in a 
letter since lost, but which is recorded by one of his 
early biographers, he described the battle, the emo- 
tions which he experienced, the danger he was in, his 
fears, his anxiety, and his intoxicating joy in the vic- 
tory. Soon after, he took part in another engagement 
between the Florentines and the Pisans, in which the 
former conquered the castle of Caprona. From this 
time he devoted himself to the Republic, his influence 
becoming every day more powerful. 

With the ascendency of the Guelphs, after the de- 
feat of Manfred, in 1266, several reforms had been intro- 
duced, — among them the institution of the Arti or 
guilds into which the city was divided, the principal of 
which were the money-changers, the judges and nota- 
ries, the physicians and apothecaries, the wool-weavers 
or clothiers, the silk-weavers or mercers, the furriers, 
and the merchants. Each of the Arti had its consul 
and gonfaloniere, or standard-bearer. In 1282 the 
Priori were instituted, first to the number of three, then 
of six, and lastly of eight, who, elected by the guilds, 
had the management of public affairs. In 1292 a new 
constitution, under the direction of Giano della Bella, 



He enters Public Life. 53 

was adopted, by which the privileges of the Arti were 
confirmed, the nobles excluded from the administration, 
and a magistrate under the name of Gonfalonier e di 
Giustizia was instituted, with the duty of defending the 
rights of the people. To him a standard was given, 
and a body-guard of one thousand infantry. 

In accordance with this constitution, Dante, re- 
nouncing his position as a nobleman, entered his name 
in the registers of the physicians and apothecaries, in 
common with others who, although not belonging to 
the profession, were engaged in the study of the natu- 
ral sciences. He was soon intrusted with several 
foreign missions, and, in the capacity of ambassador, it 
is said that he visited Siena, Perugia, Venice, Ferrara, 
Rome, Naples, and Paris. His position in the govern- 
ment of Florence became so important, that, according 
to Boccaccio, no envoy from abroad was listened to, 
no answer to foreign powers returned, no reform in- 
troduced, no war declared, no peace made, without his 
counsel and consent. " In him," says the same writer, 
" popular confidence and hope were centred, and in- 
deed all human and divine things were reflected." 

The period in which Dante entered public life was 
also that in which his political views took a wider range, 
and his opinions became more settled and more defined. 
Up to this time his chief thought had been the advance- 
ment ot the Guelphs and the welfare of his native city. 
Born of a Guelph family, educated in that political 
6* 



54 Change in his Political Views. 

school, and surrounded by the associations and influ- 
ences of that party, he had thus far been identified with 
it. He might have regarded the establishment of local 
freedom as the first step towards national unity; he 
might have been dazzled by the splendor of Florence, 
then the great centre of European civilization. It is 
certain, however, that in the first years of his career 
the nationality of Italy had not become a leading idea 
in his mind ; and if it existed at all, it was undeveloped 
and confused. But as he advanced in his philosophic 
and classical studies, and as his experience widened, his 
intellect more readily comprehended the relations of the 
national organism ; he discovered, beneath the diversi- 
ties that separated the different parts of the peninsula, 
the affinities that connected them together ; and, rising 
above local partiality and ambition, he grasped the great 
idea of national unity, which from that time he never 
ceased to consider as the corner-stone of the future 
greatness of Italy. As with the mystical death of 
Beatrice his soul had undergone a moral transformation, 
so now his political ideas were subjected to a radical 
change. He ceased to be a Guelph and a Florentine, 
and became, as has been well said, the first Italian. 
But his aspirations were not confined to Italy alone ; 
he conceived a plan of general organization, which, 
while it would place his country in an exalted position, 
would also establish the political union of the race, 
secure the permanent peace of the world, and result in 
the general progress of mankind. 



The Monorchia. 55 

To develop this fundamental idea, Dante composed 
his work De Monarchia, which may be considered the 
political introduction to the Commedia. Up to a recent 
date, h has been supposed that Dante composed this 
book at the period of his exile ; but modern criticism, 
and particularly the researches of Karl Witte, have 
shown that that composition belongs to the first de- 
cade of his public career. Written in the rude Latin 
of the age, encumbered with scholastic subtilties and 
mediaeval conceptions, this treatise is a candid, logical, 
and, at times, eloquent exposition of the political sys- 
tem of its author. It is divided into three parts ; the 
first intended to show that mankind must be politically 
united in order to secure the object of its destiny ; the 
second, to demonstrate that it belongs to Italy to effect 
that union ; and the third, to assert the separation and 
the independence of the State from the Church. 

The principles which Dante here advocates are so 
connected with the political ideas expressed in the 
Divina Commedia, that it is important to give a brief 
outline of the work. God is one, says Dante ; 
nature is one ; mankind is one, — one in its origin,' its 
essence, and its destiny. Civilization should be one, 
composed of many nations free, yet united in one great 
confederation, headed by the ancient mistress of the 
world. Rome was the moral centre of Europe in the 
time of the empire ; let Italy, the natural heir of Rome, 
take her place once more among nations. Was not 
Rome chosen to be the connecting link in the unity of 



56 The Monorchia. 

the race r Was not the Roman en: stined to be 

the organ of universal aspiration, and the great leader 
of cosmopolitical action ? The general causes which 
contributed to its first establishment, civil wars, wealth, 
and general decav, in the thirteenth centurv ..ere still 
at work ; indeed, they were more potent than before. 
The restoration of the empire, therefore, was the 
necessary result of the conditions of the time, and the 
remedv which an overruling providence had given to 
the race. And here he mingles legend with historic 
facts, and draws parallels from Roman history and the 
Bible. He tells us how T , in the same year in which 
David took the crown of Israel, -dEneas landed on the 
coast of Italy 5 and as from the family : f David the 
Saviour was born, so the children of ZEneas were des- 
tined to conquer the world, in order to establish that 
social unity which was necessary to the triumph of 
Christianity. The Saviour Himself, the type of man- 
kind, acknowledged the supremacy of the empire by 
being born under the reign of Augustus, and by sub- 
mitting Himself to the sentence of the imperial courts. 
Let Rome, therefore, put on once more the mantle of 
empire, and, surrounding herself with the great intel- 
lects of the time, let her take the high place of cosmo- 
politan umpire in all questions arising between nations ; 
and let mankind, harmonious in the infinite variety of 
its functions, go forward under her guidance to the 
conquest of its perfection, which consists in the univer- 
sal religion of human nature. 



Dante's Political System. 57 

The arguments advanced by Dante for the establish- 
ment of Italian supremacy lost their force when Italy 
ceased to hold the position at the head of contemporary 
civilization which belonged to her in the thirteenth 
century. But, apart from this, there is in his concep- 
tion a breadth and comprehensiveness which entitle the 
writer of the Monarchia to a place among the reformers 
of all ages. His plan of social organization presents an 
ideal in which the race appears as a great individuality, 
endowed with immortal life in its collective character, 
subject to that law of mutual responsibility among its 
members which is destined at some future time to be- 
come the bond of all nations. It involves the principle 
of indefinite progress developing through perpetually 
extending associations. It embraces the unity of 
mankind, not as the result of conquest, but of the har- 
monious distribution of national agencies for the highest 
common object. It anticipates in some measure, as 
has already been remarked, the plan adopted by Wash- 
ington and his compeers in the Constitution of the 
United States, differing, however, in this, that while 
the American Republic extends to States geographically 
and ethnographically integrant parts of the same country, 
the Italian empire, as proposed by Dante, would have 
embraced all the world, and have placed Italy, in relation 
to other nations, as the sun to the planets, whose influ- 
ence unites them in their harmonious movements, while 
it gives them free scope in their appointed orbits. 

In advocating; the union of mankind under the lead- 



58 Dante's 'Political System. 

ership of Italy, Dante did not intend to place other na- 
tions under her military despotism. The revival of the 
empire he contemplated was not that of the Asiatic 
monarchies, neither was it that of Charlemagne or 
Charles V. His plan, grand in its conception, resting 
on the basis of liberty, both national and individual, 
was derived, on the one hand, from ancient Rome, 
where the emperor was but a citizen charged with the 
high office of tribune, and with the defence of popular 
rights against the patricians ; on the other, from the 
idea of modern governments founded on the political 
union of municipalities belonging to the same nation. 

Hence the idea of Dante did not necessarily involve 
monarchical institutions, as is commonly believed, but 
simply the concentration of social power into an indi- 
vidual or collective authority, which should exercise the 
common sovereignty for the good of the people. Ad- 
mitting all forms of government, as circumstances 
might require, the plan of Dante was adapted to all 
nations, their different characters, traditions, and wants. 
It was essentially liberal and democratic. A nobleman 
by birth, we have seen him enter the ranks of the 
people, and give his cordial support to popular govern- 
ment. If he occasionally recalls his family origin with 
pride, he protests that there is no true nobility but that 
of virtue and genius. He compares aristocracy to a 
mantle which the shears of time make shorter and 
shorter ; he asserts that human worth rarely mounts 
into the branches of genealogic trees ; he bitterly satir- 



Dante's Political System. 



59 



izes the aristocrats of his time who sprang from bar- 
terers and peddlers ; and he even says that those who 
have not inherited the virtues of their fathers ought 
neither to inherit their property. The high value he 
placed on liberty, making even the empire subordinate 
to it, we see from the noble tribute which he pays to 
Cato, the great martyr of the Republic. He calls him 
the most sacred of courageous men ; he represents him 
as the guardian of the kingdom of purification, and, 
kneeling before his august shade, he foretells the great- 
ness to which he will be raised in the last day. And 
while he condemns Brutus and Cassius, the murderers 
of Caesar, to the deepest abysses of hell, and exalts 
Caesar for having seized the standards of the eagle, 
he carefully notes that he seized them by the will 
of Rome, and mercilessly condemns Curio, his lieuten- 
ant, to have his tongue forever cut off by the hand of 
a demon, to be forever renewed, for having urged his 
chief to cross the Rubicon v/ithout awaiting the call of 
the people. He advocates the same principle when he 
teaches that the government of nations belongs to 
philosophy — that is, to wisdom united with the imperial 
authority — and places the source of law not in the will 
of rulers, but in that impersonal reason, of which the 
people are the natural interpreters. Hence he causes 
Virgil to praise him for his love of liberty, and to ex- 
claim, while crossing the Stygian lake : — 

There above 
How many now hold themselves mighty kings 



60 De Vulgari Eloquio. 

Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire, 
Leaving behind them horrible dispraise.* 

And descending deeper into the infernal regions, he 
points out the tyrants of all ages plunged into a river 
of blood, held down bv demons in the form of centaurs, 
and guarded by the minotaur, the infamy of Crete, at 
once a beast and the son of a king, the living symbol 
of tyranny which feeds on human flesh, f 

But his political views are not only democratic ; 
they are deeply impressed with the stamp of nation- 
ality. This principle, which inspired the Monarchia 
and the Co?n?nedia, also finds expression in his De Vul- 
gari Eloquio^ an unfinished work written in Latin, in 
which the philologic element of the Italian nation is 
particularly examined. His knowledge of philology, a 
science of recent origin, was necessarily limited and 
imperfect \ yet he forcibly expresses the idea of a na- 
tional language, in opposition both to the local dialects 
and to the Latin then used by the Church and the upper 
classes. He clearly alludes to the division of the Eu- 
ropean languages into several families, as to the bases 
of distinct nationalities, and attributes a common origin 
to the Spanish, French, and Italian idioms. His re- 
marks on the Italian dialects are particularly interesting, 
as affording the means of comparing the present con- 
dition of the language with the roots from which it has 

* Inferno, viii. * 

| Inferno, xii., xxviii. ; Purgatorio, i. ; Paradiso, vi., xvi., and alibi, 
passim. 



De Vulgari Eloquio. 6l 

sprung. These dialects, according to Dante, were 
fourteen ; and he adds that each of them was so sub- - 
divided, that all together they might reach the number 
of one thousand. He passes in review the chief of 
these varieties, and rejects them all, as not having the 
characteristics of a national language, which he insists 
does not belong to one or to another city, but is com- 
mon to all. 

The multitude of dialects which from time im- 
memorial had prevailed throughout Italy, explains how, 
in the absence of a national centre, the Italian had not 
before appeared in literature. Although the primitive 
Italian songs are to be referred to the early part of the 
thirteenth century, it was only from 1220 to 1250 that 
the language began to be spoken at the court of 
Frederick II., in Palermo, when, under the auspices of 
that emperor, it was generally adopted by the Sicilian 
troubadours. From Sicily the new language soon made 
its way through the peninsula, and in Tuscany particu- 
larly it became the tongue of the poets of the thirteenth 
century, — first among them Guido Guinicelli, Guido 
Cavalcanti, and others of less note. It was this lan- 
guage, rough and poor in its vocabulary, unsettled and 
confused in its construction, which Dante made the 
vehicle of his thoughts, and which his genius moulded 
into a degree of perfection it has ever since maintained. 
While the early writers of English and French litera- 
ture have no claim to be considered as models of style, 
the productions of Dante, after nearly six centuries, 

7 



62 The Principle of Nationality. 

remain the great standard of Italian composition. His 
language unites the softness of Petrarch with the rich- 
ness of Boccaccio, and while it combines the harmony 
and the polish of the best writers, it surpasses all in 
chasteness and vigor. It is emphatically the national 
tongue, and Italy owes to him not only the first and the 
grandest expression of her living thought, but also the 
very organ of this expression, the great bond of her 
national life. Formed by the genius of the poet, he 
called forth all its harmonies, and caused it to echo 
in his poem from sphere to sphere, through the invisible 
universe, a grand paean to the future of his country. 

Dante not only acknowledged language as the basis 
of nationality, but he established that principle on the 
ethnographic character of the people. " When I say," 
he writes in the Monarchia, " that mankind may be 
governed by one ruler, I do not intend to propose 
that municipalities and municipal laws should originate 
from one source ; for nations, kingdoms, and cities have 
a character of their own, which makes it necessary 
that they should be ruled by different laws." And in 
the Commedia, seizing the true idea of national ethno- 
graphy, he presents the colossal Eagle, symbol of the 
empire, as splendid in his individuality, as brilliant in 
the variety of his components, and causes him boldly 
to denounce the living usurpers who violate the sove- 
reignty of nations, and the rulers who allow it to be 
violated. In the silvery whiteness of the temperate 
star of Jupiter, the spirits of the princes who rightly 



The Principle of Nationality. 63 

administered justice in the world appear to him clad 
in raiment of godly light. In their various and harmo- 
nious movements they describe certain signs through 
the heavens, which make the star seem silver streaked 
with gold, and which, as they are interpreted, express 
the divine command : — Diligite justitiam qui judicatis 
terrain. And as at the shaking of a lighted brand in- 
numerable sparks are scattered, a thousand twinkling 
lustres seem to descend, to ascend, and to form anew ; 
and he beholds the head and the neck of an Eagle in 
that streaming fire. Other beaming spirits move forth 
and take their places ; and soon the Eagle, with open 
wings, appears, and prominent among the living splen- 
dors which form it he recognizes David, who sang the 
Holy Spirit's song ; Trajan, who comforted the widow 
for her lost son ; Hezekiah, who retarded the coming 
of death by his prayers ; Constantine, who, to yield 
Rome to the shepherd, passed over to Constantinople, 
producing evil fruit from good intent ; and William, 
the good king, whom Sicily bewails. Now the stately 
bird rears his head and claps his wings, and there comes 
from his beak a voice, as one sound from many harp- 
strings, singing the praise of justice. Then the living 
symbol of the empire makes the heavens resound with 
his denunciations ; he upbraids Albert of Germany for 
his usurpation of Bohemia, and Philip the Fair for 
trampling on the rights of the Flemish and the Italian 
people ; he attacks Alphonso, whose luxury opened 
c pain to the Saracens ; and Wenceslaus of Bohemia, 



64 tfhe Principle of Nationality. 

whose effeminacy gave that land to the Germans. He 
loudly menaces 

The thirsting pride that maketh fool alike 
English and Scot, impatient of their bound. 

He hurls his thunderbolts against the Kings of Portu- 
gal and Norway, Charles, the halver of Naples and Jeru- 
salem, Frederick of Aragon, James of Majorca and 
James of Aragon — 

Who so renowned a nation and two crowns 
Have bastardized. 

And, turning to Hungary, whose throne was in dispute 
between two pretenders, and to Navarre, then under 
foreign yoke, recognizing the right of revolution, he 
exclaims : — 

O blest Hungary ! 
If thou no longer patiently abidest 
Thy ill entreating : and O blest Navarre ! 
If with thy mountainous girdle thou wouldst arm thee. 

Then, from the small kingdom of Cyprus, his glance 
pierces through the darkness of the future of Europe, 
and, lamenting the oppression of the land, he foretells 
the coming of revolutions and the fall of monarchies : — 

In earnest of that day, e'en now are heard 
Wailings and groans in Famagosta's streets 
And in Nicotia's, grudging at their beast, 
Who keepeth even footing with the rest.* 

* Paradiso, xix., xx. 



T?he Papacy. 65 

In the organization of Italy as a nation, as well as 
in all matters of government, Dante strongly opposed 
the interference of the papal Church. The papacy, 
which as an organized institution had gradually grown 
out of the necessities of the time, aided by the Carlo- 
vingians, whose usurpations it had sanctioned, reached 
the apex of its power in the reign of Gregory VII. 
" Charlemagne and Otho the Great," says Huillard 
Breholles, in his Historia Diplomatica Frederici Secundi, 
" exercised a real supremacy over the papacy. But 
Gregory VII., mounting to the very sources of the 
spiritual and temporal power, indignant at this depend- 
ence, undertook to subject the empire to the Church, 
and the Church to the papacy. During the ten years 
of his pontificate (1073— 1083) he could only accomplish 
one-half of his designs, and that which he took from 
the emperor he had the wisdom to transfer to the 
Church. The struggle which the successors of 

DO 

Gregory sustained against those of Henry IV., con- 
tinued with alternate reverses and successes, in which 
the popes never lost sight of the double purpose of 
their predecessor. They sought more and more to 
discipline the Church; to introduce into it a powerful 
hierarchy ; to separate it from the ties of humanity by 
suppressing the marriage of priests ; to establish, in 
fact, in this great body an energetic centralization, 
which, proceeding from the brain, might communicate 
the impulsion through all the members. The submis- 
sion of the Church to the papacy was, it may be said, 



66 cfhe Papacy. 

an accomplished fact on the accession of Innocent III. 
(1198). It then only remained to subject the temporal 
authority to the Holy See, and, uniting in one hand the 
two powers, to complete the intention of Gregory VII." 

The same distinguished writer sums up the funda- 
mental policy of the papacy during the first half of the 
thirteenth century in the following series of propo- 
sitions : — 

" The Church reserves to itself the patrimony of St. 
Peter, as a visible sign of the universal dominion which 
belongs to it. The emperor is only its delegate, and 
consequently its inferior. The empire, which is the 
highest expression of temporal power, is dependent on 
the Holy See. The sovereign pontiff, who is superior 
to the head of the empire, is the monarch of monarchs." 

This doctrine was reaffirmed at the time of Dante by 
Boniface VIII., in the famous bull Unam Sanctam, in 
which he proclaimed that " the Church possesses two 
swords, the spiritual and the temporal, — one for its own 
use, the other to be employed in its service by the 
kings and warriors of the earth ; that the spiritual power 
as much surpasses in dignity and nobility every terres- 
trial power, as spiritual things excel temporal things ; 
that the spiritual power has the right to judge the tem- 
poral power, but that the spiritual, at least in its highest 
expression, which is the pope, can only be judged by 
God." 

Familiar with Roman jurisprudence, and fully aware 
pf the baneful effects of the papal government, Dante 



T?he Papacy. 67 

could not but detest such a monstrous theory ; and it 
was chiefly to refute it that he wrote his Monarchia, 
particularly devoted to establish the supremacy of the 
State on the authority of God and on the principles of 
human reason, and to the overthrow of the arguments 
by which the claims of the Church were sustained. It 
required all the mental superiority and moral force of 
the writer thus openly to attack the papal power when 
the bloody code of Innocent III. was in full force ; 
when the sovereignty of the popes was almost univer- 
sally admitted as a corollary of the Christian doctrine ; 
and when Boniface VIII. himself, on the occasion of 
the Jubilee held in 1300, appeared at the gates of St. 
Peter's with the imperial crown on his head, preceded 
by two swords, proclaiming himself to be emperor and 
pope. His treachery to Dante when ambassador at 
his court, the persecutions heaped on him when the 
triumph of the papal party was accomplished, and his 
secret flight from the Legations, while an exile, are 
evidences of the hatred with which he was regarded by 
the Church. Even twenty years after his death, Car- 
dinal Beltrando del Pogetto, the legate of John XXII., 
not only prohibited the reading of the Monarchia under 
penalty of excommunication (a prohibition which, con- 
firmed by the Church, is still in force), but he caused it 
to be burnt in the public square of Bologna ; and 
strove, although in vain, to have the ashes of the author 
at Ravenna exhumed and scattered to the winds. 

The expression of Dante's views on this subject is 



68 tfhe Papacy. 

not confined to the Monarchia ; it pervades the whole 
Commedia^ in which, singing the apotheosis of a united 
Italy, he borrows the lightning of heaven to smite the 
papacy, her principal foe. There, in the Inferno, 
through the darkness of eternal night, he points out 
the fiery abysses into which those popes are plunged 
who have used spiritual power for the increase of their 
temporal privileges. The solitary valleys of the Pur- 
gatorio echo with laments that the sword is ingrafted on 
the crook, and that two governments are mixed that ill 
assort ; and the harmony of the Paradiso is disturbed 
by the terrible denunciations which the Chief of the 
Apostles hurls against his successors who had profaned 
his seat. Emancipation from the papal yoke appears to 
have been the great object of Dante in composing his 
poem. He did not believe that the papacy, in its or- 
ganic constitution, could be reconciled with the liberties 
of Italy ; accordingly, foretelling the advent of a re- 
deemer, he did not represent him as a messenger of 
peace, but as a military chief, armed with an avenging 
sword, through whose might the country was to be 
regenerated. The advent of such a messenger was with 
him an article of religious faith ; and he believed that — 

The high Providence which did defend 
Through Scipio the world's empery for Rome, 
Would not delay its succor.* 

* Paradiso, xxvii. See also Inferno, xi., xix. ; Purgatorio, xvi., xix., 
xxiv. ; Paradiso, xxx., and alibi, passim. 



Dante as a Religious Reformer. 69 

The separation of Church and State being a pre- 
dominant principle in the Commedia^ the question arises, 
whether Dante acknowledged the spiritual sovereignty 
of the papacy, or whether he considered it as an acci- 
dental and transient feature of genuine Christianity. 
Looking at the poem in its literal signification, the 
early commentators, followed by many modern writers, 
have generally maintained, that while he opposed 
the temporal power of the popes, and condemned the 
abuses introduced into the Church, he never over- 
stepped the bounds of strict orthodoxy, nor ceased to 
revere in their persons the legitimate successors of St. 
Peter, the guardians of Christianity, and the foundation 
of the visible unity of the Church ; while, on the con- 
trary, others have striven to show that Dante, far from 
being the poet of papal Catholicism, was the precursor 
of Luther and of the Reformation, and have claimed 
for him the first rank among religious reformers. 

Ugo Foscolo, the most accurate and independent 
among Italian critics at the beginning of the present 
century, took this view,* but it has only recently been 
systematically developed in the learned and ingenious 
writings of Rossetti.f According to this author, op- 
position to the papal power in the thirteenth century 
had so far gained ground as to induce a system of re- 
pression on the part of the Church, which culminated 

* Ugo Foscolo. " Discorso sultesto del poema di Dante." 

f G. Rossetti. " Sullo Spirito antipapale che produsse la Riforma e 

sua segreta influenza sulla letteratura d* Europa." See also his " Com- 

mento della Divina Commedia" 



70 Dante as a Religions Reformer. 

in the massacre of the Albigenses, ordered by Innocent 
III., and carried into execution by Simon de Mont fort. 
The Inquisition, established by the same pope, affords 
further evidence that the public mind was freeing 
itself from the intellectual servitude of the preceding 
centuries. The Waldenses and other religious sects, 
which had either survived the destruction of those 
heretics or risen from their ashes, had continued the 
opposition : and in the time of Dante it was chiefly 
maintained by the order of the Templars, who, since 
their establishment in the East, had rapidly increased 
in numbers, wealth, and power, and formed a vast and 
formidable organization which extended throughout 
Europe. Their doctrines, expressed in symbols and 
rites chiefly derived from the East, centred in the 
great idea of liberty, symbolized by the sun. This 
Order at length became so obnoxious to the Church, 
that Clement V. determined on its destruction, which 
he accomplished with the aid of Philip the Fair. The 
grand master and other leading Templars were sud- 
denly seized, put to torture, and burned at the stake ; 
while the Order itself was abolished by the pope 
throughout the world. 

The principal poets of the time, according to Ros- 
setti, either in communication with the Templars or 
bound together in secret associations, took a prominent 
part in this struggle. They adopted symbols and alle- 
gories, chiefly drawn from the language of love, in 
which they expressed their ideas of social and religious 



His Religious Ideas. 



71 



reform ; by which they were able to communicate with 
each other, and to make themselves understood by the 
initiated. Thus the love of liberty, symbolized by the 
poets in the love of ideal women, was nourished and 
kept alive ; and thus Dante, one of the principal 
leaders in that movement, wrote the Commedia, the 
esoteric Bible of the Templars, containing their prin- 
cipal doctrines and aspirations. 

Without entering into any criticism of Rossetti's 
theory, it may be said that no positive evidence exists 
of the participation of Dante in any organized con- 
spiracy against the papacy. Indeed, he so openly and 
boldly condemns that institution, as far at least as re- 
gards its temporal authority, that the possibility of an 
esoteric interpretation seems excluded by the text of 
the poem. His words on this subject are so clear and 
intelligible, that Ugo Foscolo suggests that the Corn- 
media could not have been published before his death, 
as it would have exposed him to greater dangers than 
those which he actually incurred. At the same time, 
his expressions on the subject of the papacy as a spir- 
itual power seem to indicate that while he recognized 
it as an accomplished fact, he strove to make it sub- 
servient to the high moral and political purposes which 
he had in view. Accordingly, he not only admits the 
fundamental distinction between the temporal and spir- 
itual authority, but he insists that while the former be- 
longs to the emperor, the latter belongs to the pope ; 
the two being the suns which are destined to cast their 



72 His Religious Ideas. 

light from Rome over the kingdom of the world as 
well as over that of God.* A glance at the religious 
ideas of the poet, which are so closely connected with 
his political system, seems necessary to a full under- 
standing of the poem. 

Dante was eminently a Christian, believing that only 
through Christianity could the world be regenerated. 
This idea pervades all his writings, and is the predom- 
inating spirit of the Commedia, which, as he himself 
says, was chiefly intended for the moral education of 
the race. He accepted also, to some extent, the form 
under which Christianity manifested itself in his time, 
when the mission of the papal Church was far from 
being closed. His moral sense was doubtless shocked 
by the scandals which had penetrated into that institu- 
tion ; but he was by no means blind to the genuine 
elements of religion which it contained, or to the salu- 
tary influence which still it exerted. He could not fail 
to be attracted by its metaphysical dogmas, its symbol- 
ism, the morality of most of its precepts, the aesthetic 
beauty of its worship, and the heroic virtues and the 
self-sacrifice which it had inspired. But while he re- 
vered what was worthy in Catholicism, he never 
recognized the divine right it asserted over the human 
conscience, which involves the destruction of all indi- 
vidual sovereignty, the birthright of every rational 
being. Had he admitted such pretensions, it would 
have been idle to insist on the separation of the State 

* Purgatorio, xvi. 



His Religions Ideas. 



73 



from the Church, which, as the popes at all times have 
rightly claimed, is the logical antithesis of that subjuga- 
tion of the human reason to their authority, which they 
so strenuously assert ; and which implies the negation 
of the highest principles inherent to the moral nature 
of man, and which form the basis of all progress in 
individual and social life. 

With Dante, therefore, the spiritual supremacy of 
the Church consists in the supremacy of that moral in- 
fluence which the popes at an early period had obtained 
^through their personal virtues, rather than from any 
prerogative bestowed on them from on high. The 
spiritual sovereignty he advocated was not that of 
Gregory VII., Innocent III., or Boniface VIII., but, 
as he expressly says, that of Linus, Cletus, Sextus, 
Callixtus, and Urban, all belonging to an age ante- 
cedent to the fifth century, when the power of the 
Holy See consisted in the virtue and sanctity of 
the pontiffs, whose lives were noble examples of hu- 
mility and poverty, and who, far from claiming juris- 
diction over the Empire and the Church, considered their 
mission restricted to the exercise of moral influence 
alone, and themselves subjects of the civil law. It 
was this supremacy that Dante wished to secure, when, 
on the death of Clement V., he wrote to the cardinals, 
urging them to elect an Italian pope, who, by returning 
the papal see from Avignon to Rome, should bring it 
under the influence of Italian civilization, and restore 
it to the purity of the Gospel. 



74 His Religious Ideas. 

The existing Church he personifies as the accursed 
she-wolf which prostitutes itself to many animals in 
wedlock vile, and corrupts Christianity, making it 
worse than idolatry. He satirizes the claim of the 
popes to infallibility even at the expense of historical 
truth ; he sneers at their assumed privilege of pardoning 
sins committed for the advancement of papal interests ; 
he places Cato, a pagan and a suicide, as guardian of 
the kingdom of expiation, and spares Manfred, although 
an excommunicated enemy of the Church ; he calls the 
papacy a cursed flower, which has turned the shepherd 
to a wolf, and has made both sheep and lambs to go 
astray ; he laments that the Gospel and the great teach- 
ers are cast aside, and that the popes and the cardinals 
never journey in their thought to Nazareth ; and, finally, 
he proclaims that the chair of St. Peter, although oc- 
cupied by a legitimate pope, is vacant in the sight of 
God.* 

Nor are the passages cited by commentators in proof 
of his orthodoxy by any means conclusive. He, indeed, 
professes reverence to the highest keys, but he never 
asserts that they are the only keys of heaven. He 
regards the first shepherd as a moral guide, but he sub- 
ordinates him to the authority of the Old and the New 
Testament. He admits many, perhaps most, of the 
dogmas of the Catholic Church, but he never recognizes 
that which is the basis of the Catholic system, the infal- 
libility of the Church, involving its exclusive possession 

* Inferno, i., xi., xxvii. 5 Purgatorio, i., iii. j Paradiso, ix., xxvii. 



His Religious Ideas. 



75 



of supernatural truth, and the consequent condemnation 
of all who die out of its pale. He believes in a Church, 
but his Church is as wide as humanity ; it embraces all 
creeds and doctrines, the good and the great of all ages, 
the illustrious pagans as well as the martyrs and apos- 
tles. This Church he symbolizes in the chariot which 
appears to him in the terrestrial paradise, drawn by the 
Gryphon, half eagle and half lion, — the God-man, sur- 
mounted by Beatrice, surrounded by the great teachers 
of religion, and the nymphs representing the Christian 
and moral virtues. It is this Church which he beholds 
transformed into the papal monster, an object of scan- 
dal and shame, and which he feels himself called to 
restore to its primitive purity, when he represents him- 
self as charged with this mission by Beatrice before she 
reveals to him the mysteries of heaven ; or when, sum- 
moned before the council of the holy men of the Old 
and the New Testament, he is examined on his faith 
and consecrated as a religious reformer by St. Peter. 
In words borrowed from St. Paul, he speaks of this 
calling, of his hardships, and his weariness, and of the 
glories and revelations from which he derives comfort 
and hope.* 



As men, governments, and forms of religion, in the 
mind of Dante, were subordinate to the great idea of 
nationality, so it was with political parties. It has been 

* Inferno, xix. ; Purgatorio, xxx., xxxi., xxxii., xxxiii. 5 Paradiso, v., 
xxiv., xxv. 



76 T?he Bianchi and Neri. 

seen that on the accession of Charles of Anjou to the 
throne of Naples, the Guelphs became permanently es- 
tablished in power throughout the peninsula. Soon, 
however, owing to jealousies and ambitions, and to new 
issues arising from the conditions of the country, that 
party became divided into two factions, reviving the old 
antagonism between the plebeians and the patricians 
which had before manifested itself in the Guelphs and 
Ghibelins. In Florence these factions were led by the 
two rival families of the Cerchi and the Donati, whose 
names were adopted by their followers. The Cerchi, 
called also the popolani minuti, preserving the democratic 
principle originally represented by the Guelphs, had 
abandoned the support of the papacy, which a bitter 
experience had shown could not be reconciled with 
Italian liberty, and had thus joined the Ghibelins. 
The Donati, or the popolani grossly on the other hand, 
remained faithful to the papal interest, but strove to 
establish in the government a new aristocratic class 
which had arisen from the increase of wealth and com- 
merce. It was to crush the growing influence of the 
popolani grossi that the revolution of Giano della Bella had 
taken place, which had resulted in the success of the popu- 
lar party, and in the adoption of a more liberal constitution. 
Events soon occurred, however, which greatly com- 
plicated the condition of parties. The neighboring city 
of Pistoja, like Florence, had become distracted by the 
division of the Guelphs into two factions, which took 
the names of Bianchi and Neri^ from rival branches of 



The Bianchi and Neri. 



77 



the ancient family of the Cancellieri, descended from 
the first and the second wife of one of its chiefs. 
From Bianca, the first wife, the Bianchi had taken 
their name ; while the other party, in a spirit of oppo- 
sition, assumed the denomination of Neri. These two 
families, one represented by Guglielmo, the other by 
Bertacca Cancellieri, were the centre of the political 
agitation which prevailed in Pistoja. Lore, a young 
son of Guglielmo, playing one day with Petieri, a son 
of Bertacca, had slightly wounded his companion, and 
on his return home was sent by his father to apologize 
to the parents of the injured boy. Bertacca, an iras- 
cible and cruel man, refused to listen to any excuse, but 
caused Lore to be seized and one of his hands cut off. 
Thus bleeding and dismembered, the boy returned to 
his father, who at once called upon his friends and 
allies to aid him in avenging the inhuman deed. A 
sanguinary engagement followed, in which many on 
both sides were killed and wounded. Riot followed 
riot, and civil war became permanent, when Florence, 
the head of the Guelph League, to which Pistoja be- 
longed, summoned the leaders of both parties, and 
confined them within the territory of the republic. But 
this new element only added fuel to the fire which 
already raged there. The rival chieftains of Pistoja 
allied themselves with the contending parties of Flor- 
ence, which now assumed the names of Bianchi and 
Neri, and the war was renewed with added fury. 

While Dante sought to reconcile the contending fac- 

8* 



78 Vieri dei Cercht and Cor so DonatL 

tions, he naturally inclined toward the Bianchi, whose 
policy coincided, to some extent, with his own, and in 
whose ranks were some of his best friends. Among 
these, he was particularly attached to Vieri dei Cerchi, 
the chief of the paitv, a man of plebeian origin, of great 
wealth, accumulated by personal energy in commercial 
enterprise, valiant, ambitious, courteous, and attractive. 
The leader of the cavalry at the battle of Campaldino, 
Vieri had displayed great bravery, when, being required 
to select twelve horsemen for the assault, he had him- 
self ridden forward, with his son and nephew bv his 
side, and, turning to his troops, had said : — " We our- 
selves shall make the charge ; but any one of vou mav 
show his devotion to his country by joining us ;" words 
which brought Dante to his side among the number 
of those who volunteered for the charge, which was 
made with brilliant success. Beside Vieri, the Bianchi 
recognized as one of their chiefs Guido Cavalcanti, the 
bosom friend of Dante, a nobleman, a warrior, a poet, 
and a philosopher. 

The Neri, on the other hand, were led by Corso 
Donati, who, as has been said, commanded the Floren- 
tine army at Campaldino, and was brother to Forese 
and Piccarda, valued friends of the poet. " Corso, M 
says Villani, " was a valorous knight, a good speaker, 
a most acute statesman, comely and of graceful carriage, 
but a worldly man and a conspirator, who, for the 
sake of attaining state and lordship, entered into many 
scandalous practices." Dino Compagni calls him the 



A Dinner-party. 



79 



Catiline of Florence, a shrewd, bold partisan, a friend 
of great lords, and an enemy of the people. Goaded 
by the overbearing violence of Corso, and the high- 
handed insults which he and his followers inflicted on 
the lower classes, the Florentines had, under the gui- 
dance of Giano della Bella, infused a stronger spirit of 
democracy into their constitution, and armed themselves 
anew against the aristocratic party. Apart from the 
hostility of Dante to the principles of Corso Donati, 
he had personal motives which estranged him from that 
leader. Haughty and proud himself, he could ill tol- 
erate that imperious aristocrat, to whom, although in- 
ferior in social position, he was so superior in moral and 
intellectual attainments. Corso, too, was the mortal 
enemy of Guido Cavalcanti, whom he had attempted 
treacherously to put to death, and the poet and other 
friends had organized themselves into an armed com- 
pany for his protection. He thus found himself an 
object of hatred to that demagogue,* and he was soon 
destined to feel the power of his revenge. 

Although the feud between the Bianchi and Neri 
had been for some time gathering strength, no important 
collision, up to the year 1300, seems to have taken 
place, and, to some extent, the civilities of common life 
continued to be exchanged between them. Villani re- 
lates that at a dinner-party given by Vieri dei Cerchi, in 
that year, Lady Filippo of the Bianchi was asked by the 
hostess to take her seat beside Lady Donati of the Neri. 
Messer Vieri jestingly remarked to his wife that she 



80 Dante Supreme Magistrate. 

should have placed some one between them, as the 
ladies did not agree. This gave great offence to Lady 
Donati, who, with some resentful words, was in the act 
of leaving the room, when the host, distressed at hav- 
ing thus unintentionally offended the lady, rushed to 
her side, begged her pardon, and gently taking her 
arm, urged her to return. But Lady Donati, crimson 
with rage, by that act considered herself still further in- 
sulted. This conduct on her part provoked a severe 
retort from Messer Vieri. The husband demanded 
satisfaction ; words were followed by blows. The first 
blood was shed ; this called again for blood. A few 
days later, during the spring festival, a band of young 
men, belonging to the Bianchi, made their appearance 
on horseback in the streets, to witness the public 
games. They were attacked by another band of the 
Neri. An engagement followed, in which many on 
both sides were wounded. Another outbreak soon 
occurred between Guido Cavalcanti and Corso Donati 
and their followers, and Florence was distracted by riot 
and violence. 

On the 15th of June, 1300, the same year in which 
he began the composition of his great poem, after a 
terrible conflict which had endangered the city, Dante, 
then thirty-five years of age, was elected one of the 
Priori, to whom the administration of public affairs was 
intrusted. Of his colleagues in office little record re- 
mains ; but it is known that his uprightness, energy, 



New Complications. 



81 



and genius soon placed him at the head of the govern- 
ment, and threw upon him the sole responsibility. 
Although inclined towards the Bianchi, he held himself 
above all parties, which he strove to pacify and to unite. 
Finding, however, all attempts at conciliation fail, con- 
vinced that the safety of Florence could only be secured 
by her deliverance from the turbulent leaders of both 
factions, and indignant at an attempt of the Neri to 
overthrow the legitimate authorities, he resolved, by a 
decisive blow, to strike at the root of the evil. He 
summoned the people to the square della Signoria, and 
caused his colleagues to sign with him an ordinance 
by which the principal leaders of the two parties were 
banished from the city. This was proclaimed and car- 
ried into execution, and Florence was at last delivered 
from the machinations and threats of these violent par- 
tisans. .The boldness of the act was equalled by its 
impartiality ; for among the exiles there was not only 
Corso Donati, his bitter enemy, but Guido Cavalcanti, 
his best friend. It is true that the latter was soon par- 
doned and permitted to return, although he returned 
only to die. 

The republic now enjoyed comparative tranquillity, 
and a period of peace and order seemed about to open. 
But this calm was of short duration. The Neri who 
remained in Florence, as well as those who had been 
expelled, refused to be reconciled with the new con- 
dition, which consolidated the power in the hands of 
their rivals, and they began to conspire both at home 



82 He is sent Ambassador to Rome. 

and abroad. Events occurred in the peninsula at this 
time which they hastened to turn to their advantage, 
and which greatly contributed to raise their hopes. 
Boniface VIII. had prevailed on Philip the Fair to un- 
dertake an expedition into Sicily, in order to overthrow 
the Ghibelin power represented by Frederick of Ara- 
gon, who had just then ascended the throne. Philip 
had placed his own brother, Charles de Valois, in com- 
mand of the expedition, to whom the pope had prom- 
ised the crown of the Eastern Empire. While Corso 
Donati was in Rome, urging the pontiff to induce the 
French prince to turn his arms against Florence, and 
to deliver her from the rule of the Bianchi, other 
prominent men of the Neri were in Bologna, where 
Charles held his court, striving to obtain the same 
object* 

The Bianchi, becoming aware of this conspiracy, 
dispatched a delegation to Rome for the purpose of 
counteracting the schemes of their rivals ; and Dante 
was appointed chief of the embassy. Aware of the 
weakness of his colleagues, and of the necessity of his 
presence both in Florence and in Rome, he at first 
hesitated to accept the mission, saying : — cc If I go, 
who is there to stay ? and if I stay, who is there to 
go ?" He decided, however, to go. Boniface received 
the embassy with marked cordiality, urged the necessity 
of a reconciliation between the contending parties, and, 
dismissing the two other ambassadors, whom he had no 
cause to fear, he begged Dante to remain in Rome to 



The Neri in Power. 



83 



complete the negotiations. Meantime he treacherously 
ordered Charles de Valois to enter Florence, ostensibly 
as a peace-maker, but in reality invested with authority to 
overthrow the existing government, and re-establish the 
Neri. This order was carried out on the 1st of No- 
vember, 1 30 1, when Charles entered the city at the 
head of his army. At first he proclaimed that he had 
come to bring the olive-branch of peace, and to recon- 
cile the opposing parties. The historian Dino Com- 
pagni, a Bianco himself, was charged with the negotia- 
tions between the two factions, and the organization of 
a government in which they should each have an equal 
share. But the claims of the Neri were so exorbitant, 
that Dino, in his record of these events, declares that he 
soon abandoned in disgust all hope of pacification, and 
that his moral sentiment was so shocked by the plans of 
the leaders of that party, that, protesting that he would 
not play the role of Judas, he withdrew from the con- 
ference. 

Meantime Corso Donati, still in exile, had learned 
that his return would not be unwelcome to Charles, 
and, under cover of night, he arrived at the gates of 
the city, where he was met by his partisans. Inflamed 
by his violent harangues, and led on by him, they en- 
tered, set free the prisoners, drove the Priori from the 
palace, set fire to the city, and, amidst the conflagration, 
gave themselves up to robbery, rapine, and murder. 
These orgies lasted for five days ; half the city was 
destroyed, and the people, whose leaders had been rnur- 



84 Dante Exiled. 

dered or had escaped, remained impotent and terrified 
spectators of the awful scenes. In the midst of the 
burning ruins of Florence the Neri established a gov- 
ernment of their own, at the head of which, under the 
auspices of Charles and Corso, they placed Cante dei 
*Gabrielli, a violent and unscrupulous demagogue. 

While these events were occurring Dante was still 
in Rome, detained there bv the artifices of the pope. 
His house had been pillaged and burned, and his lands 
given up to devastation. A sentence of temporarv 
banishment was soon passed against him, on the ground 
of his opposition to the advent of Charles de Valois, 
and also of his having illegally taken money in the dis- 
charge of his office ; a charge, however, which he never 
condescended to notice, and of which his biographers 
have fully exonerated him, Failing to pav the fine which 
had been imposed upon him bv the first sentence, a 
month after it was not onlv confirmed, but his property 
confiscated and his exile made perpetual, under penalty 
of being burnt alive if he were ever found within the 
territory of the republic. Thus betrayed by Boniface, 
and the victim of the conspiracy of Corso and his ad- 
herents, Dante, at the age of thirty-six, found himself 
deprived of the considerable property which he had in- 
herited from his father, reduced almost to beggary, torn 
from his family, and an exile from the city of his birth, 
which he loved with an intense devotion, and where he 
had hoped to receive the poet's crown. 



His Efforts to Return. 



85 



Leaving Rome, he came to Siena, where he first 
heard of the sentence passed against him. He then 
visited Arezzo, Bologna, and Forli, everywhere arousing 
the companions of his misfortune, and calling them to 
the rescue of Florence. " Florence," he said, " we 
must recover ; Florence for Italy, and Italy for the 
world." The exiles held a council in the territory be- 
tween Siena and Arezzo, where the Ghibelins, now 
almost entirely identified with the Bianchi, were still in 
possession of fortresses and castles. They established a 
provisional government, in which the poet held a promi- 
nent place y they organized an army, and appointed 
Scarpetta degli Ordelaffi, Podesta of Forli, to command 
it. Meanwhile, Dante visited the different courts favor- 
able to their cause, and succeeded in obtaining several 
thousand recruits, particularly from Bartolommeo della 
Scala, Lord of Verona, the chief of the Ghibelins, and 
his ardent friend. 

In 1303 an attempt was made to take possession of 
Florence ; but the army of the exiles was defeated, and 
the prisoners mercilessly slaughtered by the Guelphs. 
Nor did the second attack, led by Alessandro della Ro- 
mella, prove more successful. The vanguard of the 
united Bianchi and Ghibelins penetrated far into the 
city, but soon, repulsed by a stronger force, a panic en- 
sued, which ended in a general flight. Dante was pres- 
ent at neither of these battles ; but he became greatly 
disheartened at the failures, which he, to a great extent, 
attributed to the cowardice of his allies, from whom he 
9 



86 D. .:>;. 

grew more and more estranged, until finally he withdrew 
parties, 

Indeed he had never been a partisan. Endowed with 
the sterling qualities of the statesma: : : bv a 

noble patriotism, he regarded all organizations as means 

in end ; and if he took part with them, it was not 
to become the slave oi their traditions or of their preju- 
dices, but onlv to make them subservient to higher aspi- 
rations. Hence his transition from one party to another; 
vrtiai adherence, first to the Guelphs, next to the 
Bianchi and the Ghibelins ; his endeavors to reconciie 
them into one great national party; and, finally, his 
abandonment of all, far from "indicating vstencv, 

as been asserted, were the result ci h;^ intense devo- 
tion to his countrv, and his anuria;: pursuit of whatever 
course he believed would best promote the hiuhes: 
interests of Italy. En his poem he peaks of his 

independence of all parties. He causes his teacher^ 
Brunetto Latini, to predict that he " shall be craved with 
keen hunger by all factions ;" and his ancestor, Cacca- 
guida, to foretell, that of all the calamities which will 
befall him, that which shall gall him most will be the 
worthless and vile ccmpar.v amidst w : will be 

thrown.* 

This lofty sentiment of personal independence led 

him, whi. ng judgment on his contemporaries, to 

md punishment; iing to their 

claims as patriot, not as partisans; far patriotism he 

reriio, iv. ; Paradiso, xviL 



His Wanderings. 87 

esteemed as the highest virtue among those which elevate 
and endear life, and treason the most hideous crime 
which can deform human character, surpassing even 
parricide in its nature and dire effects : and so he con- 
demns traitors to eternal misery, and, whether Guelphs 
or Ghibelins, shows them, side by side, imprisoned with 
Lucifer in the frozen lake of Antenora, in the lowest 
depths of hell. * 

From the time of his banishment from Florence to 
that of his death, a period of about twenty years, we 
find Dante wandering from city to city, from monastery 
to monastery, from castle to castle, often finding hos- 
pitality from leaders of all parties, but always smarting 
under the sting of his own misfortunes and those of his 
country. In 1303 he found his first refuge and place 
of rest at the court of Bartolommeo della Scala, in 
Verona, who received him with such courtesy and kind- 
ness, that, as he says, " his granting always foreran his 
asking."f Not long after, he appears at Bologna, occu- 
pied in study ; next in Padua, where he received from 
his friend Giotto, then engaged in painting the chapel 
of the Madonna dell' Arena, the most generous and cor- 
dial hospitality. While in that city, he became the in- 
timate friend of Madonna Pietra, of the noble family 
of the Scrovigni, — a relation which has been regarded 
by his biographers as having been of a more tender 
character. Here he summoned to him his eldest son, 

* Inferno, xxxii. "j* Paradiso, xvii. 



88 He Continues his Poem. 

Retro, then fourteen ears of age, whose education he 

desired to direct. After two .ears' residence alter- 
nated a: Bologna and Padua, we find him in Lunisriana, 
at the court of Franceschino Malaspina, who ruled that 
State in common with his two nephews, Conradin and 
Morello, distinguished for their warlike deeds and schol- 
arly accomplishments, as well as for their sincere attach- 
ment to the poet. 

While Dante was still in Limigiana, a circumstance 
occurred which led to the continuance of the Commedia^ 
which had been laid aside in the excitement of his pub- 
lic life, and his subsequent exile. During the disorders 
which followed the entrance of Charles de Valois into 
Florence, in 1321. when :he house of the poet was 
pillaged and burned, Gemma, his wife, foreseeing the 
impending danger, caused some coffers, which contained, 
among other i objects, the first cantos of the 

poem, to be removed and secreted in a safe place. 
Five years after that even:, when the violence of pas- 
sion had somewhat subsided, and more moderate men 
were at the head of the government, Gemma, finding i: 
difficult to support and educate her numerous familv 
her own hands, sought to recover some of the confis- 
cated proper: ; and searching in the coffers for the 
deeds relating to it, found the manuscript of the first 
seven cantos of the Inferno. T are shown to sev- 

eral scholars, and their merit was at once recognized. 
Thev were sen: to Morello Malaspina, with the request 
that he would use b n the poet to induce 



Gemma, his Wife. 



8 9 



him to complete the work. Dante had regarded it as 
lost, and abandoned all thought of its completion \ but 
he said, that since God had been pleased to preserve and 
restore it to him, he would endeavor to comply with the 
wishes of his friends. He accordingly devoted himself 
to the work, and re-wrote the cantos already composed. 
Since the world is thus partly indebted to the wife of 
Dante for the preservation and the completion of his 
great poem, it may not be out of place here to refer to 
the charges brought against her by some of his biogra- 
phers, who assert that she proved a second Xantippe to 
him, and that his matrimonial connection was most un- 
fortunate. About 1293 Dante had married Gemma, of 
the family of the Donati, then politically connected with 
the Allighieri. He had lived with her but about seven 
years, when, in 1301, he was driven from Florence, 
and, it appears, never saw her again. Of the unhappi- 
ness of his marriage, however, there is no evidence, other 
than that the poet never alludes to his wife in his works, 
nor does it appear that he ever made any effort to induce 
her to join him in his exile. But neither did he speak 
of his children nor of his mother, whom he tenderly 
loved ; his silence probably arising from the custom of 
the time, by which it was considered improper to brin£ 
before the public matters of a purely domestic charac- 
ter. On the other hand, his apparent neglect in having 
lived so long apart from her, finds abundant justification 
in his restricted circumstances, the unsettled condition 
of his life, which involved the necessity of constant 
9* 



90 His Visit to Monte Corvo. 

changes, the numerous family of children dependent on 
her maternal protection, and, above all, in his unwaver- 
ing hope of a speedy return to his home. Considering, 
then, the affectionate care she took of his family, pro- 
viding for them even by the unaccustomed labor of her 
own hands, the devotion which prompted her to save 
his manuscripts and a part of his property from destruc- 
tion, it would seem that the charges preferred against 
her are entirely groundless. It is true that his marriage, 
by placing him in relation with his political opponents, 
the Donati, may have caused him serious embarrass- 
ment, and the representations alluded to doubtless had 
their origin in this cause. 

We trace Dante in his various wanderings up the 
valley of the Adige, as far as the Alps of the Tyrol ; 
to the castle of the Ubaldini, in the mountains of the 
Casentino ; to the monastery of Santa Croce di Fonte 
Avellana, on the Apennines of Umbria, where a cham- 
ber is still shown in which it is said he composed a part 
of his poem ; to the castle of Colmollaro, near Gubbio, 
where he received the hospitality of Messer Bosone, 
a Ghibelin leader, his pupil and commentator ; next to 
Udine, where he was entertained by Pagano della Torre, 
the Patriarch of Aquileja ; and to the picturesque castle 
of Tolmino, in the Friuli, where a rock is still pointed 
out in the shadow of which he used to sit. 

He visited also the monastery of Santa Croce del 
Corvo, situated on the shore of the Gulf of Spezzia, 
towards the borders of the dominions of the Malaspinas, 



His Visit to Monte Corvo. 91 

where the most advanced point of Monte Caporione 
extends into the sea. His biographers relate that, in 
1308, the hermits of St. Augustine, who lived there, 
one day saw a stranger of sad aspect, somewhat bent, 
as if oppressed by the burden of many sorrows, standing 
on that lovely spot, and gazing with kindling eyes at 
the charming picture which lay before him, encircled by 
a distant horizon, overhung by the blue sky reflected in 
the bluer sea. One of the monks approached and 
kindly addressed him ; but the stranger, absorbed in the 
contemplation of the scene, made no reply. When again 
addressed and asked what he wished, sadly turning his eyes 
towards the speaker, he answered, peace. Fra Ilario, the 
Superior of the hermits, struck by his countenance, asked 
him aside ; and learning who he was, manifested for him 
great sympathy and reverence. Dante then, taking from 
his breast a manuscript, presented it to the monk, say- 
ing : — " Here is a portion of my work. I leave it to 
you as a memorial of my respect, and I would ask that 
you would send a copy of it to Uguccione della Fag- 
giuola, the Lord of Pisa, one of the three to whom I 
desire to dedicate the poem. 5 ' On opening the book, 
Fra Ilario wondered how the poet could have written a 
work on such high subjects in the popular tongue ; to 
which Dante answered, that he had begun the poem in 
Latin, but that he had finally decided to adopt the lan- 
guage which was more in conformity with the intelli- 
gence of the people. The monk, on sending the manu- 
script to Uguccione, wrote an account of this interview, 



92 His Visit to 'Paris. 

and added, that of the other parts of the Gommedia, the 
Purgatorio would be found with Morello Malaspina, 
and the Paradiso with Frederick of Aragon, King of 
Sicily.* It appears, however, that afterwards, disap- 
pointed by the policy pursued by that king, Dante with- 
held the contemplated dedication, and transferred it to 
Can Grande della Scala, Lord of Verona, the faith- 
ful champion of the national cause. The last thirteen 
cantos of the Paradiso, however, remained undiscovered 
for several months after the death of the poet, when his 
son, Jacopo, found them at Ravenna, in the house 
where he died \ having had a dream, in which, accord- 
ing to Boccaccio, the luminous ghost of his father, clad 
in white garments, appeared to him, and pointed out 
the place where they had been hidden. 

Soon after his visit to Monte Corvo, Dante was 
in Paris, a city which had long been frequented by 
Italian scholars and merchants. He devoted himself 
to the study of theology at the University, and attended, 
among others, the lectures of Sigier, a celebrated theo- 
logian of the time, and a disciple of Averrhoes, who 
appears to have taught very bold doctrines. The poet 
alludes to these lectures as being given in the Vico degli 
strami^ so called from the straw on which the students 
sat, in the absence of benches, which were not yet in- 
troduced into the schools. He took different degrees 

* Although some modern critics regard the letter of Fra Ilario as spu- 
rious, its authenticity has been established by others, particularly by Carlo 
Troya, in his Vcltro Allcgorico. 



The Emperor Henry Seventh. 93 

in theology, and on a certain public occasion, according 
to the prevailing custom, he discussed extemporaneously 
all questions on fourteen different subjects, and defended 
his positions against as many learned doctors. Ad- 
mitted with honor to the highest degree, he was obliged 
to renounce it for the want of means necessary to pay 
tbe fee. Boccaccio asserts that from Paris Dante 
passed into England, then ruled by Edward II., and 
another biographer adds that he visited Oxford. 

In 1308, on the death of Albert, Henry, Count of 
Luxemburg, was elected King of the Romans and 
Emperor of Germany, under the name of Henry VII. 
His election was confirmed by Clement V. ; and hav- 
ing received the imperial crown at Aix-la-Chapelle, at 
the hands of the Archbishop of Cologne, and settled 
the disputes among his German barons, he set out for 
Italy, where for nearly sixty years the imperial eagles 
had not been seen. Arrived at Lausanne, in the sum- 
mer of 1 3 10, at the head of a small army, he remained 
there to await re-enforcements, and to receive the dele- 
gations sent by the Italian cities to pay him hom- 
age. In the following October he crossed Mount 
Cenis, visited Turin and Asti, where he was greeted 
with demonstrations of loyalty, and reached Milan, 
where, on the day of the Epiphany, 131 1, he received 
the iron crown. Here, and in the other cities through 
which he passed, he appointed vicars, recalled exiles, 
and strove to reconcile all parties, His eagerness in 



94 Dante 9 s Hopes Revive. 

this respect was so great, and the favor he showed to 
the Guelphs so marked, that the Ghibelins complained 
that he was kinder to his enemies than to his friends. 

We may judge of the high esteem in which the new 
emperor was held by the Italian people from the testi- 
mony of Dino Compagni and Villani, two contempo- 
rary chroniclers. Dino describes him as descending 
from city to city, establishing peace and good-will, 
as though he had been an angel of God ; and Villani, 
having given at some length the history of Henry, 
says : — cc Let not the reader marvel that we have con- 
tinued the history of his deeds without interruption. 
This we have done for two reasons \ one, because all 
Christian people, and even the Greeks and Saracens, 
watched with great interest his progress and fortune, 
and there was little to observe elsewhere \ the other, 
because in so short a time he experienced such great 
vicissitudes. He was good, wise, just, and gracious ; 
honest, brave, and fearless ; a good Christian, and of 
modest lineage. He had a magnanimous heart, and 
was much feared and held in awe. He followed also 
this supreme virtue, — he was never disheartened by 
adversity, nor elated by success." 

The advent of Henry in Italy could not but excite a 
lively interest in the hearts of all patriots, who saw in 
his triumph the dawn of a new era for their country. 
To Dante, particularly, that event was the glorious 
promise of the restoration of Italian unity, and all his 
hopes and enthusiasm revived. He was in France 



Florence plots against the Emperor. 95 

when news reached him of the emperor's descent into 
Italy, and he hastened at once to join him. He ad- 
dressed a letter " to Robert, King of Naples, to Fred- 
erick, King of Sicily, to the Senators of Rome, to the 
Dukes, Marquises, and Counts, and to all the people 
of Italy," which shows with what exaltation of mind 
he regarded the course of the emperor. " Behold now," 
says he, " the acceptable time in which the signs of 
consolation and of peace arise. Truly the new-born 
day begins to diffuse its light ; the aurora now appears 
in the East which dissipates the darkness of our misery, 
and the heavens, resplendent with tranquil clearness, 
strengthen the predictions of the nations. We who 
have long dwelt in the desert shall behold the expected 
joy, for the peaceful sun will arise, and slothful justice, 
which had retreated in darkness to its utmost limit, will 
return in all its splendor." Urging his countrymen to 
receive the emperor as the betrothed of Italy and the 
glory of the nation, he never forgets his own dignity 
nor the dignity of his country. " Rouse yourselves," 
exclaims he, " like freemen, and recollect that the em- 
peror is only your first minister ; that he is made for 
you, and not you for him." Non enim gens propter Re- 
gem, sed Rex propter gent em. 

But while most of the Italian cities, incited by Dante, 
arrayed themselves under the banner of Henry, the 
Florentines v/ere busily plotting against him. They 
had, indeed, at first, shown some disposition to accept 
his rule, in common with the other cities of the Tuscan 



^ 



96 Dante's Indignation. 

League ; but, owing to the intrigues of powerful 
Guelphs, of Robert of Anjou, King of Naples, and of 
Clement V., they now refused allegiance to him, de- 
clined to receive his delegates, and at last, to avoid the 
consequences of their vacillating policy, they took 
measures to resist his progress. They fortified Flor- 
ence, formed an alliance with other discontented cities, 
and, in order to occupy the emperor elsewhere and 
prevent his approach, they incited revolts in the north- 
ern provinces. 

At this policy, so fatal to the cause of Italy, the 
grief and indignation of Dante were extreme. After 
an interview with the emperor, in which he had enforced 
upon him the necessity of bold and energetic measures, 
he retired to the quiet solitude of Castle Porciano, in 
the Casentino, where he watched events with intense 
anxiety. Henry VII. meantime, from the influence of 
bad advisers, or from his own irresolute character, 
wasted his time and resources in overcoming the lesser 
obstacles in his way, and failed to strike the decisive 
blow. Dante now (April 16, 131 1), from his retreat, 
addressed an eloquent letter to him, in which he im- 
plored him, in his own name and in that of his com- 
panions in exile, to put an end to his temporizing 
policy, and to march at once on the city which was the 
fruitful source of evil, " the viper which turned its 
fangs against the bosom of its mother, the contaminated 
sheep which spread disease among the flock, the inces- 
tuous Myrrha who delighted in unholy connections." 



Dante in Genoa and Visa. 97 

He insists that Florence is the key of the position, the 
possession of which will involve the submission of the 
other cities ; that his delays will bring certain ruin on 
him and on the cause, and ; assuming the language of 
an equal rather than that of a subject to his sovereign, 
he says : — " Why dost thou stop half way, as if the 
empire lay in Liguria ? Art thou he that shall come, 
or do we look for another ?" 

Henry had just received this letter when the revolt 
of Brescia caused him to march on that city. Having 
previously recalled the exiled Guelphs and reconciled 
them with the Ghibelins, then in power, he had thought 
himself secure. But they were no sooner re-established 
than they drove out their rivals, made an alliance with 
Florence and Bologna, and openly rose against his au- 
thority. The emperor now laid siege to Brescia (May 
14, 131 1), but, as Dante had predicted, this proved a 
disastrous step. The imperial troops were decimated 
by disease ; and, while several months were lost in the 
siege, Florence gained time to prepare for resistance. 
Brescia at length surrendered (September 26, 131 1), 
and the emperor forthwith departed for Genoa, where 
he was joined by the poet. His biographers relate that 
while in that city, Dante was the object of serious out- 
rages on the part of the people, with w T hom he had 
dealt severely in his poem, particularly with Branca 
Doria, the most powerful among the nobility, whose 
soul he had described as in hell for having murdered 
zo 



98 c tke Emperor before Florence. 

his father-in-law, while his body, still on earth, was 
animated by a demon.* 

The emperor, meanwhile, having recruited his 
army, and furnished himself with additional means 
for carrying on the war, on the 12th of February, 
13 1 2, accompanied by Dante and other prominent 
exiles, sailed for Pisa with a fleet of thirty galleys. 
After spending a few months in that city, in order 
to complete his preparations, Henry, at the head of 
his army, left for Rome, where the troops of King 
Robert and of the Tuscan League had previously ar- 
rived, and were ready to oppose his coronation. On 
the 7th of May the imperial army reached Ponte 
Molle, which they found strongly guarded. They 
forced it and entered the city. Many engagements en- 
sued, which were so far successful on the part of the 
emperor, that on the 1st of the following August he 
was crowned. He at once left Rome and pursued his 
way towards Florence. 

On the 19th of September he arrived before the city, 
which, according to Villani, he could have taken by a 
bold movement ; but, cautious, undecided, and still 
nourishing the vain hope that the Florentines would 
voluntarily submit, he lingered around the walls until 
the last opportunity was lost. A fever attacked his 
army, the emperor himself was taken ill, and, without 
striking a blow, he retired to Poggibonzi. Having thus 
failed to establish his authority in Tuscany, probably by 

* Inferno, xxxiii. 



A Charge Contradicted. 99 

the advice of Dante, he now decided to turn his arms 
against King Robert, who had so greatly contributed to 
his defeat. An alliance was concluded with Frederick, 
King of Sicily, money and troops were raised, and a 
fleet of one hundred and fifty galleys equipped. For- 
tune again seemed to smile on Henry, and the crown of 
Italy to be once more within his grasp. But only for a 
brief interval. He was taken ill on his way to Apuglia, 
in the town of Buonconvento, near Siena, where he 
died, August 24, 13 13. His army dispersed, Italy was 
left more disturbed than ever, and a new source of 
grief was opened in the sorrowful heart of Dante. 
But he was not ungrateful to the emperor, although he 
had accomplished so little. Imagining the events de- 
scribed in his poem not as past, but as to come, he 
causes Beatrice to point out in the heights of the Em- 
pyrean the proud throne, surmounted by a crown, on 
which shall rest the soul of the great Harry.* 

The course of Dante on the coming of Henry VII., 
has furnished narrow-minded critics occasion to charge 
him with having invoked foreign intervention in the 
affairs of the peninsula from motives of personal revenge. 
According to these writers, he abandoned the cause of 
the Guelphs only because he had been persecuted by 
that party, and urged the German emperor to take pos- 
session of Florence only that he might re-enter the city 
and chastise his enemies. But this charge is contradicted 
by the whole course of the poet himself. We have 

* Paradiso, xxx. 



100 A Charge Contradicted. 

seen that his relations with political parties were always 
subordinate to higher objects, and that the idea of the 
unity of Italy, far from having sprung up in his mind 
after his exile, was the result of his calm and philosophic 
speculation in the Monarchic a work which, according 
to the best critics of the present day, was written in the 
most brilliant period of his public career. That the 
Guelph party was unable to carry out that idea, he had 
early become convinced ; hence we have seen him, at a 
period preceding his proscription, attach himself to the 
Bianchi, who had many points of similarity with the 
Ghibelins. If he looked to the German emperors for 
the carrying out of his political system, we must not lose 
sight of the fact that those princes, in the middle ages, 
were recognized as the highest representatives of civil 
authority, and that Italy was not a self-existing nation, 
but under the yoke of foreign potentates. Dante had 
sought in vain for an Italian chief who could expel those 
despots, and reduce the country to one government. 
Nothing now remained but to look to France or to Ger- 
many for that power ; and between the two he did not 
hesitate to choose. While France had at all times la- 
bored to secure in Italy the ascendency of the popes, 
the natural foes of Italian unity, Germany, for more 
than two centuries, had opposed them. She was, there- 
fore, the natural ally of the Italian people in their strug- 
gle for national life. An alliance with France presented 
serious objections, formidable as she was in her position 
as a border state, in her strength and warlike character, 



The Fleet of Italy. 101 

and still more in the fact of her common origin. These 
dangers could not be feared in the case of Germany, a 
country heterogeneous, remote, divided, and harassed by 
intestine contentions. In any attempt at subjugation, 
the Italian people would be most likely to absorb the 
German ; as in the seventh century, when the northern 
tribes, descending into Italy for conquest, became civil- 
ized and fused into the national stock. Add to this, 
that the German emperors derived their supremacy from 
Rome, as the successors of the Caesars, and as such 
were Italians. Accordingly, Dante insisted on the ne- 
cessity of Rome becoming the seat of the empire as 
well as the capital of the nation, and that any emperor 
of foreign birth should become a naturalized Italian, as 
his power was of Italian origin. 

But it was no question with Dante as to who should 
be the redeemer of his country ; it was, where he should 
be found. He would have accepted Can Grande della 
Scala, Uguccione della Faggiuola, the Malaspinas, Fred- 
erick of Sicily, or even Robert of Anjou, notwithstanding 
he says of him that he was more fit to be a preacher 
than a king. Although Frederick, after the death of 
Henry, withdrew his galleys and declined to serve the 
cause any longer, the poet did not despair. He still 
clung to his cherished idea, and, in the spirit of proph- 
ecy, foretold that since the South had failed in her 
duty, the power of the nation must pass to the North. 
Comparing Italy to a fleet, he thus predicted the events 
of to-day : — 
10* 



102 Uguccione delta Faggiuola. 

Yet before the date 
When through the hundredth in his reckoning dropped, 
Pale January must be shoved aside 
From winter's calendar, these heavenly spheres 
Shall roar so loud, that Fortune shall be fain 
To turn the poop where she has now the prow, 
So that the fleet run onward : and true fruit, 
Expected long, shall crown at last the bloom. * 



After the death of Henry VII., Dante continued to 
roam through the country, and at the close of the year 
13 1 3 we find him in Pisa, at the court of the lord of 
that republic, Uguccione della Faggiuola. The most 
successful adventurer of his time, valiant and refined, a 
warrior and a poet, Uguccione had extended his domin- 
ions from Arezzo to Pisa and Lucca, and distinguished 
himself in the imperial army. Dante first met him at 
Arezzo, on his return from Rome, and was most favor- 
ably impressed by his manners, culture, and political 
aspirations. He now yielded to his entreaties and vis- 
ited his court, hoping to find leisure to continue his 
poem, and also to be able to induce Uguccione to put 
himself at the head of the national movement. He 
found him, however, unwilling to risk his present posi- 
tion for an uncertain glory in the future. He had mar- 
ried his daughter to Corso Donati, and had allowed his 
ambition to be tempted by the pope, who had promised 
a cardinal's hat to one of his sons ; and he dreaded to 

* Paradiso, xxvii. 



At the Court of Can Grande. 103 

endanger his relations with the court of Rome and the 
leader of the Guelph party. Becoming selfish, he be- 
came also despotic and cruel. A revolution ensued, led 
by Castruccio Castracane, a young patriot of Lucca, 
who had acquired great popularity for his boldness and 
gallantry. Uguccione was expelled from his dominions, 
and took refuge at the court of Verona, where he be- 
came general of the army ; and there he was again joined 
by the poet. 

Verona was then under the rule of Can Grande della 
Scala, the brother of Bartolommeo, at whose court 
Dante had before resided. The poet had known Cane 
in his youth, and entertained for him a warm friendship. 
A chivalric and adventurous prince, an intrepid warrior, 
a skilful statesman, Can Grande had extended his do- 
minions through northern Italy, and held the position 
of vicar-general of the empire. By his love of letters, 
and his fondness for poetry and the fine arts, he had 
attracted to Verona the most distinguished exiles, upon 
whom he lavished all his magnificent liberality. His 
splendid palace, adorned with pictures of battles, myth- 
ologic and pastoral scenes, its various departments deco- 
rated to suit the tastes and professions of his different 
guests, was at all times crowded with warriors, poets, 
and artists, who rendered his court brilliant and re- 
nowned. Had Dante sought only comfort and repose, 
it would seem that he might have been happy here. 
His fame as a poet gained him universal admiration ; 
he was surrounded by some of his best friends, and en- 



■ 



104 ^ ie P a ? ns °f Exile. 

joyed the affectionate care of his son Pietro, who had 
settled in that city as a lawyer, and whose descendants 
still live in the noble family of the Sarego-Allighieri.* 
But, with all the esteem and friendship which were 
shown to him, he could not rest. The misfortunes of 
his country preyed on his sensitive spirit, and his soul 
was devoured by that slow-consuming fire which the 
exile only feels. Cacciaguida foreshadows the fate which 
awaited him when he says : — 

Thou shalt leave each thing 
Beloved most dearly ; this is the first shaft 
Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove 
How salt the savor is of other's bread; 
How hard the passage to descend and climb 
By other's stairs, f 

In his Vulgare Eloquio he says : — " I have pity for all 
unhappy ones ; but most for those, whosoever they 
are, that languish in exile, and visit their country only 
in dreams." He early addressed a pathetic letter to the 
people of Florence, beginning, u My people, what have 
I done to thee ?" and entreating permission to return ; 
and in his Convito, striving again to move his country- 

* The male line of Dante ceased in the youngest of his six sons. 
The noble family of the Saregos of Verona descend from Ginevra, 
only child of Pietro, who married Count Marco Antonio Sarego, whose 
family added the name of Allighieri to their own. At the request of the 
Corporation of Florence, the King of Italy has recently bestowed the 
honor of the Florentine patriciate upon the present Count Pietro Sarego- 
Allighieri and his descendants in the male line. 

f Paradiso, xvii. 



His Refusal of an Amnesty. 105 

men to pity, he writes : — u Oh, why was not the Sove- 
reign of the universe pleased to remove this sting from 
me ! for then none would have sinned against me. I 
should have suffered no undeserved pain, nor would I 
have been thus subjected to exile and to misery. It 
has been the pleasure of Florence, the beautiful city, 
the famous daughter of Rome, to reject me from her 
sweet bosom, where I was born, where I grew to mid- 
dle life, and where, if it may please her, I wish, from 
my heart, to end the time which yet remains to me, 
and then to rest there my worn-out spirit. Through 
almost all parts where our language is spoken, a wan- 
derer, well-nigh a beggar, I have gone, showing, against 
my will, the wounds of fortune. Truly I have been 
a vessel without sail or rudder, driven to diverse ports 
and shores by that hot blast, the breath of grievous 
poverty." 

But, much as he longed to return to Florence, he 
scorned all offers of pardon on terms derogatory to his 
dignity. In 13 17, the Neri finding themselves secure 
in power, and no longer under the evil influence of 
Corso Donati, who had been murdered by the populace, 
the Florentine authorities proclaimed an ordinance of 
amnesty to exiles on condition of fine and penance \ 
thus placing them on the level with pardoned convicts, 
who were, on the festival day of St. John, the patron 
of the city, required to present themselves at the church, 
holding a candle in their hands, when, with appropriate 
rites and offerings, they were restored to the rights of 



106 His Refusal of an Amnesty. 

citizenship. Several of the friends of Dante were de- 
sirous that he should avail himself of this opportunity, 
and wrote to him urging his return. In a reply to such 
a request made by a monk, one of his friends, he 
: — vt I have received vour letter with all the rever- 
ence and affection which I feel for you, and I am very 
grateful for the interest which you take in my return. 
My obligation to you is the more deeply felt, as it is so 
seldom that the exile finds friends. But as for the in- 
formation which vou give to me, I pray you to consider 
mv position before vou judge of mv decision. So I 
understand, through your letters and those of my nephew 
and of other friends, that I may avail myself of the ordi- 
nance just proclaimed for the restoration of the exiles ; 
that is, if I pay a certain sum, and submit myself to the 
ceremonv of being offered, I may be absolved and re- 
turn. This proposal contains two things ridiculous and 
ill-advised. I sav ill-advised by those who mentioned 
them ; for vou, wiser and more discreet, say nothing 
on this subject. Is this then the glorious return of 
Dante Allighieri to his countrv, after nearly three lustres 
of suffering and exile I Did mv innocence, patent to 
all, merit this ? For this, the perpetual sweat and toil 
of studv : Far from one, the housemate of philosophy, 
be so rash and earthen-hearted a humility as to allow 
himself to be offered up bound like a school-boy or a 
criminal ! Far from one, the preacher of justice, to 
pay those who have done him wrong, as for a favor. 
This is not the way for me to return to my country ; 



His Dissatisfaction. 



107 



but if another can be found that shall not derogate from 
the fame and honor of Dante, that I will enter on with 
no lagging steps ; for if by none such may Florence be 
re-entered, by me then never ! Can I not everywhere 
behold the mirror of the sun and the stars ? speculate 
on sweetest truths under any sky, without giving my- 
self up ingloriously, nay, ignominiously, to the populace 
and city of Florence ? Nor shall I want for bread." 

Having refused the amnesty, Dante continued to live 
at the court of Can Grande, chiefly occupied in the 
composition of the Paradiso, the first cantos of which he 
dedicated to his patron and friend. In his letter of 
dedication he alludes to the fame which his lordship 
everywhere enjoyed, and by which he himself had been 
attracted to his court. He says that his magnificence 
surpasses even its reputation, and, in token of his friend- 
ship, he begs him to accept the most sublime portion of 
his poem. He then dwells on the various interpretations 
of the work, its symbols and allegories ; he explains the 
reason for the title of Commedia ; speaks of its divisions ; 
and, while he enters into an exposition of the first canto, 
he says that he must omit other details which would aid 
in the interpretation of the poem, as he is so oppressed 
by poverty. He hopes, however, that the generosity 
of his patron will find the means to place him out of 
need, that he may be allowed to write more on the sub- 
ject. 

This lament, which is often repeated in other works, 
seems to indicate that although Dante was kindly treated 






108 His Dissatisfaction. 

by Can Grande, his generosity was not of that exalted 
kind which he had experienced from his brother, Bar- 
tolommeo. Hence, while in the Paradiso he extols 
Cane for his liberality, and predicts his future glory, he 
plainly hints that he may say things -not relished by his 
patron, and that, in consequence, he may even lose his 
place of refuge. It could not be supposed that the poet 
would long remain a favorite in a court in which, how- 
ever hospitable, gayety and pleasure formed the chief 
occupation of life, and the power to minister to these 
tastes the surest means to favor and advancement. His 
frankness and his haughty bearing were little calculated 
to secure the partiality or good-will of the company 
among whom he found himself. Can Grande, although 
esteeming him far above all his other guests, often al- 
lowed himself to be amused at the embarrassment in 
which the insolence or the ridicule of the triflers of the 
court sometimes placed him. This, of course, added to 
his irritation and dissatisfaction. Petrarch relates, that 
Dante having a positive dislike for one of the courtiers 
who was the favorite of all for his buffoonery, Cane, one 
day, expressed some surprise that such a fool could make 
himself agreeable, while he who was so wise could not ; 
to which the poet replied : — " You would not wonder, 
if you knew that friendship lies in similarity of tastes 
and of mind." It appears that coarse jests were al- 
lowed at the court of Can Grande, for which Dante had 
no taste, and which it was far below the dignity of the 
host to permit. It is related that, on one occasion, a 



At the Court of the Polentas. 109 

boy was concealed under the table, who gathered the 
bones, which, according to the custom of the time, 
were thrown on the floor, and placed them all together 
at the feet of the poet. On rising from dinner the pile 
was discovered ; the company seemed much amused, 
and Can Grande remarked that Dante must be a great 
eater of meat. To which he quickly retorted, alluding 
to his name of Cane : — " Sir, you would not see so 
many bones even if I were a dog (un cane)" From 
these and similar incidents handed down by tradition, it 
may be inferred that his life at that court was not a 
happy or congenial one. This unhappiness was still 
more aggravated by the office of judge, with which some 
of his early biographers say that he was intrusted, and 
which, it appears, was highly distasteful to him. Be- 
sides, while Cane recognized Frederick of Austria as 
the legitimate emperor, Dante, with Uguccione, sup- 
ported Louis of Bavaria, to whom he dedicated his 
book, De Monarchia. Thus it is easy to understand 
how, even without any open rupture with his patron, 
he finally decided to abandon Verona. 

In 1320, Dante passed to Ravenna, then ruled by 
the Polentas, whom he had long numbered among his 
friends. He had fought with Bernardino at the battle 
of Campaldino, and enjoyed the friendship of Guido 
Novello, the present ruler of the republic, a poet and 
a warrior, who felt himself honored by this visit, and 
received the poet with a hospitality worthy of the host 



HO He is Sent Ambassador to Venice. 

and of the guest. . He called to his court his sons Pietro 
and Jacopo, whom he intrusted with honorable offices ; he 
surrounded him with every comfort, and strove in many 
ways to make him forget his sorrows. Thus enjoving 
the generous friendship of Guido, the love of his sons, 
and the tender care of several friends, — among whom 
were the sister of Uguccione della Faggiuola, her two 
daughters, and Giotto, who came to Ravenna to 
visit him, — he devoted himself to the completion of 
his work. He continued to correspond with the schol- 
ars of his time, among them Giovanni del Virgilio, the 
most distinguished Latin poet of the age. Two 
eclogues of this writer remain, addressed to Dante, 
whom he calls the harmonious swan, while he reserves 
for himself the name of vulgar crow. In these verses 
Virgilio exhorts him to abandon the Italian language, 
and to sing in Latin the great events of the day, such 
as the death of Henry VII., the victories of Can 
Grande, and the wars of Liguria. " But, above all," 
he says, u come to Bologna, to take the poetical crown 
which belongs to thee, although. I fear that thy Guido 
will not allow thee to leave Ravenna, and the beautiful 
Pineta which adorns it on the coast of the Adriatic." 
Dante replied to these poems in two other Latin 
eclogues, in which he says tbat however happy he would 
be to receive the laurel crown in Bologna, he would be 
still happier to receive it in Florence. " But," he con- 
cludes, "when new kingdoms shall be manifested 
through my cantos, and the inhabitants of the stars 



His Death. ill 

shall appear, then will be time to garland my gray hair 
with ivy and laurel." 

In 1321, Dante was sent by Guido Novello on a 
diplomatic mission to the Republic of Venice, for the 
purpose, it appears, of forming an alliance to resist the 
growing power of the Guelphs, whom Guido, although 
himself of that party, had reason to fear. The Vene- 
tians, however, a few years before having been excom- 
municated by the pope, and their property and territory 
given to the first who should conquer them, had only 
succeeded in averting these penalties by making the most 
abject submission through their ambassador, who, it is 
said, was admitted into the pontifical presence only in 
the attitude of a dog walking on all fours, with a noose 
around his neck. The proud republic of Venice, there- 
fore, far from consenting to enter into a new contest 
with the papal power, refused even to receive the am- 
bassador of Guido, and Dante, disheartened, returned 
to Ravenna. 

Broken down by a life of struggle and disappoint- 
ment, his hair white from suffering rather than from 
age, the divine old man, as Giovanni del Virgilio calls 
him, fell ill on his return from Venice, and after lin- 
gering a few days, having received the. last consolations 
of religion, died on the 14th of September, 1321, at the 
age of fifty-six years, mourned, says Boccaccio, by 
Guido and all the people of Ravenna. 

Robed as a Franciscan friar, according to his own 
wish, at his feet a golden lyre with broken chords, his 



112 



His *fomb at Ravenna. 



hands resting on the open Scriptures, the remains of 
Dante lay in state in the palace of the Polentas. A 
magnificent funeral followed ; the bier was borne by 
the most distinguished citizens of the city, and Guido 
himself delivered the funeral oration. He ordered a 
worthy monument to be erected in the honor of the 
departed poet, rut whether he was able :: ::_/ at his 
;::: : e:u :: whether, belnc. hints eld s: ::: abter drive:: :: : :v 
Ravenna, his pious wish remained unfulfilled, it is dif- 
ncult to decide. In I-S3 a monument was erected bv 
Bernardo Bembo, Pcdesta cd Ravenna, designed by 
Lombardi, a celebrated architect and sculptor. In 
1692 it was rest: red by Cardinal Corsi, pontifical le- 
gate, and was a rain restored, ::: i"Su, bv Cardinal 
Go nzaga. 

A distinguished American writer thus describes the 
monument : — cc At an angle of one of the by-streets 
of Ravenna is a small building, bv no means striking 
either as regards its architecture or decorations. It is 
rented bv z rate of open iron-work, surmounted by a 
cardinal's hat — indicating that the structure was raised 
or renovated bv some churci: dignitary, a class who 
appear invariably scrupulous to memorialize by inscrip- 
ti : ::s and emblems whatever public work they see fit to 
promote. A stranger might pass this little edifice un- 
heeded, standing as it does at a lonely corner, and wear- 
ing an aspect c: neglect 1 but as the eve glances tier: ugh 
the railing of the portal, it instinctively rests on a small 
and time-stained bass-relief in the opposite wall, repre- 



His tfomb at Ravenna. 113 

senting that sad, stern, and emaciated countenance, 
which, in the form of busts, engravings, frescoes, and 
portraits, haunts the traveller in every part of Italy. 
It is a face so strongly marked with the sorrow of a 
noble and ideal mind, that there is no need of the lau- 
rel wreath upon the head to assure us that we look 
upon the lineaments of a poet. And who could fail to 
stay his feet, and still the current of his wandering 
thoughts to a deeper flow, when he reads the entabla- 
ture of the little temple, Sepulchrum Dantls poetcz"* 
Of the several Latin inscriptions on the monument, none 
have particular claim to be noticed except the last two 
verses of the principal one, attributed to Dante himself, 
but which is more probably from the pen of Giovanni del 
Virgilio or some of his pupils. f Florence has again and 
again entreated Ravenna to restore to her keeping the 
saered remains of the poet. In the sixteenth century Mi- 
chael Angelo desired to erect a monument in his honor, 
if his ashes might be restored to Florence. But all nego- 
tiation failed : nor has the formal demand recently made 
by the corporation of Florence met with better success. 
Ravenna, proud of her sacred trust, declines to renounce 
it, on the ground that Dante, as the national poet, belongs 

* Henry T. Tuckerman. "The Italian Sketch-Book." 

f The inscription here alluded to is thus translated by an American 

poet : — 

The rights of monarchy, the heavens, the stream of fire, the pit 
In vision seen, I sang as far as to the fates seemed fit : 
But since my soul, an alien here, hath flown to nobler wars, 
And, happier now, hath gone to seek its Maker 'mid the stars, 
Here am I Dante shut, exiled from the ancestral shore 
Whom Florence, the of all least loving mother, bore. 
II* 



114 H: ' : -P- ""'-"■'' r, G .v.--. 

to no one city more than to another, and that his 
grave cannot be in a fitter place than that in which he 
found his last refuge. In 1829, a cenotaph in honor of 
the poet was erected by the Florentines in Santa Croce, 
re lie the remains of Michael Angelo, Machiavelli, 
Galileo, and Alfieri ; but regenerated Italy will doubt- 
less, ere long, give a nobler expression to the admiration 
and reverence with which she regards the great founder 
of her literature. 

" Dante," says Boccaccio, "was of middle height; 
his face was long, his nose aquiline, his eyes large, his 
complexion dark, his hair and beard thick, crisp, and 
black ; his countenance was sad and thoughtful, his 
gait grave, and his bearing wonderfully composed and 
polished. He was greatly inclined to solitude, familiar 
with few, and temperate in his habits ; he seldom spoke 
save when spoken to, though a most eloquent person. 
He was assiduous in study, of tenacious memory, and 
marvellous capacity." According to a tradition pre- 
served bv Filippo Villani and others, confirmed by Va- 
sari, a portrait of the poet in early life was painted by 
Giotto, with other frescoes, in the chapel of the palace 
of the Podesta, now used as a prison under the name 
of the Bargello. From two fires which occurred in the 
palace in the fourteenth century, the pictures became so 
defaced that the walls on which they were painted were 
whitewashed, and in the course of years the process 
was several times repeated. Although connoisseurs 



His Portrait by Giotto. 115 

had long believed that the frescoes were not entirely- 
destroyed, it was only in 1840, through the zeal of Sey- 
mour Kirkup, Richard H. Wilde, and Mr. Bezzi, that 
any investigation was made. The whitewash was re- 
moved, and the portrait of the poet, although consider- 
ably damaged, was brought to light and restored by 
Marini. It forms part of a group painted on the walls 
of the old chapel, where appear the figures of Corso 
Donati, of a cardinal, of a king, and by his side that of 
Dante. Two distinguished artists,* recently commis- 
sioned by the Italian government to inquire concerning 
the most authentic portrait of Dante, have reported this 
to be a copy from the original of Giotto, who, according 
to the chroniclers of the day, had painted the poet, 
not on the walls, but on a table attached to the altar of 
the chapel, and which may have been saved from the 
fires alluded to. Among existing portraits, the com- 
missioners give the preference to one in miniature which 
is found in the Codice Riccardiano (1040), and next, to 
the one on the walls of the Duomo,f which they believe 
to be from the original of Taddeo Gaddi, a pupil of 
Giotto, which was once in the church of Santa Croce. 
They also call attention to a mask in colored plaster 
owned by the Marquises Torrigiani of Florence, which 
is said to be a copy of the original mask taken after 
death, from which the busts now most frequently seen 
have probably been copied. 

* Signori Luigi Passerini and Gaetano Milanesi. 
f Engraved by Raphael Morghen. 



ll6 His Portrait by Giotto. 

The conclusions of these connoisseurs are opposed 
bv other artists of equal reputation, who defend the 
authenticity of the portrait in the palace of the Podesta, 
and give it a decided preference over all others.* How- 
ever this may be, it is certain that from the existing 
portraits in the Codici and the churches, as well as from 
those in the pictures of the Holy Sacrament and the 
Parnassus by Raphael, there is formed an ideal, which, 
varying in minor details, gives us the general type of 
the features. of the poet, and of the changes which they 
underwent, through age and struggle, from the youthful 
picture of Giotto, marked bv a touching sadness, femi- 
nine softness, and depth of expression, to those of a 
later period, when the bitter trials of his life had stamped 
themselves on his countenance, and given to it that ex- 
pression which made the women of Verona say, as he 
passed, that he had come from the hell whence he could 
go and return at his pleasure, and bring news of those 
who were there. 

* Among those who uphold the authenticity of the portrait of Giotto, 
Signori Cavalcaselle and Selvatico may be mentioned. 



THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 



THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. 



IN his dedication to Can Grande della Scala, Dante 
thus explains why he gave the title of Commedia 
to the poem to which posterity has added the epithet 
divine. " Comedy," he writes, " is a poetic narration, 
beginning with painful scenes and having a happy con- 
clusion. It differs from tragedy, which is quiet and 
admirable in the beginning, and in the end horrible. 
Besides, the style of tragedy difFers from that of com- 
edy \ the one is lofty and sublime, the other common 
and humble, according to the precept of Horace. The 
reason thus appears why this work is called Commedia. 
If we regard its subject, while at the beginning it is 
horrible and revolting, it is hell ; at the conclusion it is 
happy, desirable, and attractive, it is paradise. And so 
the style is low and humble, because it is written in the 
language in which even little women converse." 

The Divina Commedia^ like other great national epics, 
is founded on the religious traditions of the age in which 
it was composed. Long before the time of Dante, the 
gods of Olympus had been dethroned, and a new religion 
had revealed to mankind a higher spiritual life on earth, 
and a heaven of justice, peace, and blessedness here- 



120 Its Mythology. 

after. Founded on Monotheism, excluding alike Poly- 
theism and Pantheism, embodying in its doctrines the 
loftiest principles of morality and right, and presenting;, 
in the life of its divine founder, the most elevated type 
of virtue and self-sacrifice, Christianity appeared as an 
ideal religion, independent of all mythologies, — a living 
negation of the priesthood and of all ecclesiastical 
forms, reiving exclusively on spirit and truth to produce 
the moral regeneration of mankind. Owing, however, 
in part to the nature of the human mind, in part to the 
influence of the Greek and Roman mythological tra- 
ditions, as well as those from the East and the North 
among which it developed, Christianity soon lost much 
of its spiritual character ; and the new religion not only 
grew into a vast hierarchical organization modelled on 
that of the empire, but it borrowed rites and ceremonies 
from the pagan worship, as well as new doctrines from 
the Platonic, Aristotelian, and Arabian philosophies. 
From these various elements there arose a mythology, 
half Christian half pagan, of which allegories, symbols, 
legends, and the personification of the virtues and vices 
formed the principal features, and which found expres- 
sion in the romances of chivalry, in the songs of the 
Troubadours, in the fabliaux of the langue d'Oc, and 
in ail the literature of the middle ages. 

Prominent among the elements of this mythology 
were the fictions which related to the future life. The 
Christian doctrine of the immortality of the soul, in- 
volving the punishment of the wicked and the reward 



Its Mythology. 



121 



of the just, passing through the popular imagination, 
assumed a material shape, and grew into an external 
form, through which it was believed that the palingenesy 
of man after death was to be effected. This belief 
had long before prevailed among the Egyptians and the 
Asiatic nations, whose traditions concerning the regions 
inhabited by departed souls, and their correspondence 
with the deeds done in the flesh, passing through the 
Greeks and the Romans, reappeared in the middle 
ages among the Mohammedans and Jews \ and particu- 
larly among Christians, whose faith became intensified 
by the prevailing opinion that the reign of Antichrist 
was approaching, and that the end of the world was 
near at hand. Hence the visions, raptures, apparitions, 
and imaginary journeys through the infernal regions, 
purgatory, and paradise, which fill the ascetic and the 
theological works of that day, and of which the 
" Golden Legends," published in the thirteenth cen- 
tury, and the " Lives of the Saints," by the Bolland- 
ists, are inexhaustible mines. At the time of Dante, 
these imaginary creations had taken deep root in the 
public mind, and had become vital elements of religious 
thought as well as of art and literature ; they were 
freely used by popes and priests in their letters and ser- 
mons, adopted by poets in their songs, sculptured on 
the doors and stalls of churches, and painted on cathe- 
dral walls and windows. But it was as subjects of 
dramatic representation that they most delighted the 
popular mind. Villani relates that, in the year 1304, a 



122 Its Allegoric Character. 

mystery representing the tortures of the infernal regions 
was performed in Florence, at the foot of the bridge 
alia Carraja, and that the number of persons assembled 
to witness the spectacle was so great, that the bridge 
gave way, and many of the audience were drowned. 
" Thus," says the chronicler, " that which was an- 
nounced as a mere amusement became a sad reality, 
many people having indeed gone to see the other 
world." 

It was these traditions and these popular ideas of 
mediaeval Christianity that furnished Dante with the 
machinery of his great poem, and his descriptions of the 
invisible regions, while they embody all that the Chris- 
tian religion reveals on the subject, are enriched with 
the beautiful creations of Grecian imagination, and the 
gloomy or fantastic myths of the North and the East, 
which together form the symbolic structure of the In- 
ferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso, into which the Divina 
Commedia is divided. Dante himself bears testimony 
to the allegoric character of his poem when, in his let- 
ter to Can Grande della Scala, he writes : — " To un- 
derstand what here is said, it is necessary to know that 
this work has not only one sense but several : the lit- 
eral, derived from the letter ; the allegoric, which arises 
from the things signified by the letter. Literally, the 
poem treats of the state of spirits after death \ but alle- 
gorically it signifies the present hell, in which man does 
either right or wrong in his pilgrimage on earth." His 
son Jacopo, who may be considered in some measure 



Its Allegoric Character. 



123 



as the interpreter of the mind of his father, says the In- 
ferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso are figures representing 
man on the earth sunk in vice, striving to purify him- 
self, or confirmed in virtue, through which the human 
soul attains happiness and rises to the contemplation of 
the Supreme Good. Accordingly, the poet himself often 
warns his readers to seek for the thought concealed in 
his mystic strains, and appeals to them to make their 
eyes keen to penetrate the veil of his subtle texture. 
Thus human depravity, purification, and moral perfec- 
tion, are the great ideas embodied in the allegoric struc- 
ture of the Gommedla, which is symbolic in the conic 
form of the hell and purgatory, with the ancients an 
emblem of generative evolution ; in the spheres of the 
paradise, involving the idea of the plurality of worlds ; 
in the mysterious force by which the poet is borne 
from one to another, indicating the intellectual power 
of man in overcoming obstacles ; in the general sig- 
nificance of the poem, which expresses throughout the 
doctrine of the immortality of the soul, the universal 
law of compensation, the mathematical connection be- 
tween moral and physical order, and the gradual devel- 
opment of humanity from the lowest degree of barbar- 
ism through historic epochs to the highest civilization. 

But the Commedla is not only symbolic in its outward 
form ; it is equally so in the vision which it describes. 
It includes two distinct poems, the one philosophic 
and religious, the other historic and political \ the twc 
being throughout interwoven, each serving as an 



124 The Protagonist of the Poem. 

allegoric veil to the meaning of the other. The his- 
toric and political aspect has again two significations, 
intermingled yet distinct, corresponding to the political 
objects of the poet, the redemption of Italy and of the 
world. To this double interpretation Dante refers 
when he says that the hell of the present life is the 
allegoric subject of the poem ; — the hell of barbarism 
in which nations were ingulfed ; the brutal vices of 
princes and people ; the oppression of the good and the 
triumph of the wicked ; the hell of anarchy and of des- 
potism which afflicted his country. And as we regard 
Italy or mankind in their progress towards union, peace, 
and civilization, or in the final attainment of their des- 
tiny, we find in the Purgatorio and in the Paradiso the 
complementary parts of the grand double epic, which 
contains at once the moral history of a nation and of 
humanity. 

But, from whatever point of view the vision may be 
regarded, Dante stands forth not only as the painter of 
the immense picture which he unfolds before our eyes, 
but as the protagonist and the central symbol of the 
action which he portrays. Unlike the ancient poets, 
whose personality is lost in the events which they sing, 
he never disappears from his scenes. He carries us 
with him in his mystic journey, causes us to see what 
he sees, to hear what he hears, to feel what he feels. 
Whether passing through the fire and the ice of the in- 
fernal gulfs, ascending the solitary mountain of the 
penitents, or borne by the force of love from sphere 



The 'Protagonist of the Poem. 



125 



to sphere, he is always the lover> the theologian, the 
philosopher, the Florentine, the Italian, bearing with 
him the memories of his youth and manhood, the sor- 
rows and the hopes of his nation and of his race. 
Throughout the Commedia, the poet appears as the 
main subject of its action. His voice rings out clearly 
above the imaginative drapery and the supernatural 
machinery of the poem, and imparts a startling reality 
to the scenes it describes, and a truthfulness to the ex- 
pression of ideas, passions, and emotions, which finds 
its parallel only in Shakspeare. We feel that beyond 
the grave the dead still live ; we listen to the story of 
their crimes and of their virtues ; we share in the tor- 
ments of the wicked and the joys of the blessed ; and 
in the realities of the invisible world we find the great 
epic of the present as well as of the future life. This 
personality, however, is never separated from the alle- 
goric personification through which he represents man 
in his individual and social development ; and this double 
character, combining the living reality of the poet with 
the sublime idealism which he portrays, gives to his great 
work much of its philosophic and aesthetic originality. 

It is this predominance of individuality , # both in its 
real and symbolic character, which first appears in the 
Commedia as an element of poetic composition, that places 
Dante at the head of the modern school of progress, 
which is founded chiefly on this characteristic, and ren- 
ders him the precursor and prophet of that great refor- 
mation that is still going on, ii? which man is striving 



126 Its Universality. 

to reconquer that spiritual sovereignty over himself of 
which he has been deprived by so many ages of des- 
potism ; and it is in this view that he is to be 
revered as the father of modern literature. He pre- 
ceded the revival of learning by three centuries ; he 
created a new language from the rude dialects of the 
people ; he first introduced Christianity into poetry, 
which he caused to become the messenger of moral 
regeneration. He apotheosized woman in many sym- 
bols, particularly in those of Beatrice and the Virgin 
Mary, and exalted that divine element, first truly de- 
veloped by Christianity, which has been characterized 
by Goethe as the eternal Feminine. He sanctified pa- 
triotism and liberty ; and, blending mythology and 
science, legend and history, into one grand and har- 
monious work, he sang an ideal civilization which 
will be attained only when humanity shall have reached 
its highest limit of perfection. Thus, in the gran- 
deur of its conception, and in its bearing on human 
destiny, the Commedia is superior to all other poems 
of ancient or modern literature. While Homer and , 
Virgil sing the legends of Greece and Rome, Milton 
the fall of man, and Klopstock the advent of the Mes- 
siah, Dante sings the despair, the hope, and the tri- 
umph of the race. 

As the Commedia, in its various interpretations, is 
symbolic, philosophic, historic, and political, it is epic 
in its unity and universality, lyric in its hymns, dramatic 
in its development, through dialogue and action, and 



tfhe Human type. 



127 



didactic in its scientific discussions. As it is universal 
in its forms, it is universal in its subjects. It embraces 
the history and the aspirations of mankind, as expressed 
in the restoration of the empire, the exaltation of the 
Caesars and of Henry VII., the condemnation of the 
papacy, and the judgments of men and governments in 
general. It is the exposition of a grand system of his- 
toric philosophy, as broad as humanity itself, which the 
poet, borrowing his illustration from the prophet Daniel, 
typifies in a huge old statue with a golden head, its 
members composed of different metals, symbols of the 
ages, placed on a mountain in mid-ocean, the back 
turned towards Egypt, the emblem of antiquity, and 
the face towards imperial Rome, emblem of the future. 
The statue is rent throughout, and from the fissure 
tears flow, the tears of mankind, which, gathered to- 
gether, form the four rivers of hell, symbolic of the evils 
of a disunited race.* 

It is chiefly from the various aspects of the human 
nature which it so vividly portrays, that the Commedia 
derives its claim to universality. The human type has 
always been, more or less, the object of aesthetic com- 
position. We see it struggling through the gigantic and 
monstrous creations of ancient Egypt and India, and at 
length manifesting itself in the beautiful personifications 
of the gods and heroes of Greece. Before Dante, how- 
ever, the artistic expression of human nature had always 
fallen short of its ideal. Even the perfection which it 

* Inferno, xiv. 



128 



-I l \e Humaik 'iyp^ 



attained in the arts ot Greece was limited to physical 
beautv, and never reached that moral grandeur to which 
it was elevated bv Christianity. Subject to the neces- 
sity of an inexorable fate, the blind instrument of a mys- 
terious power, in the poems of India and Greece man 
never appears as the personage to whom the deeds which 
they celebrate or represent could be attributed ; not as 
the cause of his actions, but as a splendid mask behind 
which the hidden power moved or spoke. Thus the 
ideal man was deprived of that liberty, the essential 
characteristic of human personality, and the source of 
all moral action. With Dante, on the contrary, indi- 
vidual freedom is " the supreme gift bestowed on man, 
the most convincing proof of the goodness of the Crea- 
tor. " Accordingly, in his poem he regards it as the 
source of all merit and demerit, and the basis of all present 
and future rewards and punishments. He depicts all va- 
rieties of the human type under the action of this free' 
and creative agency ; considers them in their manifold 
aspects, tragic and comic, noble and ignoble, sublime 
and grotesque \ and combines them all in one great com- 
position, the true exponent of human life. All the ex- 
tremes of human experience, the terrors of hell and 
the blessedness of paradise ; all the elements and powers 
of man ; his counterparts in good and evil, angels and de- 
mons ; his crimes, his virtues, his despair, his hope, his 
hatred, and his love, indeed all the sentiments and pas- 
sions that agitate the heart, are here represented. The 
poet of humanity, he places popes and emperors, kings 



Nature. 



129 



and priests, masters and patricians, on the same footing 
with infidels and subjects, beggars and slaves, workmen 
and plebeians ; all equal in hell or in paradise, distinguished 
by the only real cause of distinction, their moral char- 
acter. His muse directs itself not to one class or to the 
other ; not to the wise or to the ignorant, to the good 
or to evil-doers, but to mankind at large. It holds be- 
fore all men a general type, through which they may 
learn to detest crime and love virtue, and to recognize 
themselves as children of the same Father, brothers of 
the same blood. Thus, with the Divina Commedia 
modern art was born, and after three centuries there 
appeared in its train Hamlet and Othello, followed by 
Don Carlos and Faust, the great representative produc- 
tions of modern literature. 

The appreciation of nature, in its grand and beautiful 
forms and wonderful design, constitutes another element 
of universality in the poem. " When the ancient 
world," says Humboldt, " had passed away, we find in 
the great and inspired founder of a new era, Dante Al- 
lighieri, occasional manifestations of the deepest sensi- 
bility to the charms of the terrestrial life of nature. 
He depicts with inimitable grace the morning fragrance, 
and the trembling light on the mirror of the gently 
moved and distant sea. He describes the bursting of 
the clouds and the swelling of the rivers when, after 
the battle of Campaldino, the body of Buonconte da 
Montefeltro was lost in the Arno. The entrance into 
the thick grove of the terrestrial paradise is drawn from 



r i 



15c Xj'i:rc. 

the poet's remembrance of the pine forest near Ra- 
venna, where the matin song of the birds resounds 
through the leafy boughs. The local fidelity of this 
picture of nature contrasts in the celestial paradise with 
the stream of light, flashing innumerable sparks, which 
fall into the flowers on the shore, and then, as if inebri- 
i:ei with their sweet fragrance, plunge back into the 
stream, whilst others rise around them. It would 
almost seer.; as if this fiction had its origin in the recol- 
lection of that peculiar and rare phosphorescent con- 
dition of the ocean, when luminous points appear to 
rise from the breaking waves, -:id, spreading themselves 
: the surface of the waters, convert the liquid plain 
into a moving sea :: srirkling stars/' To these exam- 
ples may be added the many beautiful similes drawn from 
the sea, boats, ships, sails, and the details of navigation 
with which the Qmanedia abounds ; the descriptions of 
lights and shadows, in the infinite variety of their com- 
mons and degrees j the rising and the setting of the 
sun, as seen : ; m d liferent points of latitude ; the light- 
d g t j s b : : : g s : irs \ the whirlwind 9 the pheno- 
an produced by the solar rays penetrating the dense 
mists of the Alpine regions - 9 and other charming com- 
parisons drawn from the fields and the vineyards, from 
agricultural and pastoral life. It is these vivid illustra- 
tions drawn from external nature, mingled with similes 
from science and history, which, added to the living 
~nce of the poet, give to the poem that wonderful 
air of reality by which it is everywhere pervaded. 



God, 



w 



Besides man and nature, there are other types described 
in the Commedla, and first among them is that which 
comprehends all existing and possible types, God, the 
Infinite Power, Intelligence, and Love. With the 
ancient poets, the symbols of the Divine Nature were 
either material, or entirely disproportioned to the idea 
they intended to express. And so with those adopted 
by Christian art. Indeed, the more elevated was the 
conception of the Deity as revealed by Christianity, the 
more difficult became its artistic representation. Even 
the union of the Infinite with the finite, in the Incar- 
nation, failed to bring it within the compass of art. 
Hence the Fathers of the Church earnestly opposed the 
Anthropomorphism which was early introduced into the 
new worship, as antagonistic to the spirituality of the 
Christian idea ; and although at a later period the figures 
of some of the saints, and particularly that of the Ma- 
donna, as depicted by Italian artists, received a typical 
character, no representation of Christ has ever been 
thus regarded by the Christian world. Although the 
best paintings of the Saviour may truthfully express 
some of the moral perfections of His humanity, yet they 
utterly fail to give even a remote idea of His Divinity. 

This impossibility of rendering the Divine Ideal in 
aesthetic composition, which at a later epoch prompted 
Leonardo da Vinci to throw away his brush, after a vain 
effort to paint the head of Christ in his Last Supper, 
caused Dante to refrain from giving form or language 
to the Deity, although His living presence is constantly 



<l 



132 



tfhe Angels. 



felt throughout the poem. His artistic merit, in this 
respect, is far superior to that of Homer, Milton, and 
Klopstock, who, by representing the Deity as an Em- 
peror sitting on his throne, uttering his commands, and 
even discoursing on metaphysical questions, lower the 
1 conception of God, by divesting it of that spirituality so 
essential to any true idea of the Divine Nature. The 
God of Dante appears only in His mighty attributes ; He 
is the first truth, the truth itself, the eternal light which 
dwells in itself, and of itself understands the past, the 
present, and the future. He is the Sun which illumines 
all intelligence, and warms all nature into love. He 
is the Supreme Good, the rays of whose splendor are 
diffused through the universe. He is Eternal Justice, 
recompensing every wrong. He is Wisdom, allotting 
a just meed unto all. He is the point whereto all 
times and places are present, and on which heaven and 
nature hang. And although the poet often makes use 
of expressions which might have been accepted by 
Giordano Bruno and Spinoza, yet he never subjects 
himself to the charge of Pantheism. He tempers the 
boldness of his philosophic speculations with his poetic 
fancies, makes the angels the intermediate link between 
God and nature, and nowhere confounds the infinitude 
of the Deity with His finite manifestations.* 

Angels have been conceived under various forms, and 
endowed with different characteristics, varying accord- 
ing to the peculiarities of different nations. They ap- 

* Paradiso, xxviii., xxix., and alibi, passim. 



T'he Angels. 



»33 



pear in all ancient literatures, particularly in that of 
Persia, furnishing to philosophers a fertile subject of 
speculation, and to poets an inexhaustible source of 
aesthetic imagination. u The ancient Persians," says 
Hyde, " so firmly believed in the ministry of angels, and 
their superintendence over human affairs, that they gave 
their names to the months, and assigned to them distinct 
offices and provinces. The Jews followed their exam- 
ple in this respect, and held that every one had a tute- 
lary or guardian angel from his birth. The Moham- 
medans are also great believers in angels, as were the 
Gentiles generally, especially in the East. It is not 
unusual, in Oriental phraseology, to call natural agents 
or phenomena angels ; thus the winds or currents of 
air in motion, lightning, and fire, are so called. The 
rainbow being regarded as the messenger of the gods, 
its colors became those in which divine natures were 
supposed to be clothed." 

This faith was accepted by Dante, as expressed in 
the angelogic system attributed to Dionysius the 
Areopagite, but probably the work of a Neo-platonic 
writer of the sixth century. They appear as the 
Divine agencies which distribute the bounties of God 
throughout nature, and preside over the harmonious 
movement of the universe. They are in heaven sym- 
bols of the innumerable existences which people the 
Cosmos, and on the earth of the forces of nature. 
Endowed with different degrees of perfection, and in- 
trusted with different offices, the angels of the Corn- 
el 






134 ^ e Demons. 

media are not individual personages, with distinct 
characters, as the Archangels Michael, Raphael, and 
others, described by Milton and Klopstock, who are 
rather heroes drawn after those of Homer. With 
Dante they are ministers of God in the government of 
the physical and moral world, the messengers and or- 
gans of Divine Providence. Clothed in a luminous, 
transparent integument, in accordance with the philo- 
sophic idea that no finite spirit can exist without some 
kind of body, they watch over the welfare of nations, 
families, and individuals ; they fill the terrestrial and 
celestial atmosphere ; they mingle with the blessed in 
paradise \ they succor the penitent in purgatory ; and 
they descend into hell, to punish the arrogance of the 
demons. But, whether fulfilling their duties in the 
other worlds or on the earth, or absorbed in the con- 
templation of Him whom to see is to be blessed, they 
appear in the Comniedia as the highest creations in the 
universe, whose mission is to celebrate the glory of 
their Creator and to lead humanity on to its destiny. 

Opposed to the Angels are the Demons, representing 
the evil spirit in its various manifestations, whose object 
is to impede the upward progress of man. We have 
here the elements of that eternal struggle between good 
and evil, which is the foundation of all mythologies and 
religions. As the angels are the types of moral beauty 
and holiness, the demons represent moral disorder and 
degradation ; and the Commedia is the arena in which 
the conflict is carried on by man, aided on one side by 



The Demons. 



135 



the celestial powers, on the other tried and tempted by 
the angels who fell the victims of their own accursed 
pride. Strong in intellect and energetic in action, they 
concentrate their powers into an intense hatred of God, 
of man, and of that general order to which, against 
their will, they are made subordinate. Subjected by 
their fall to the shame of material transformation, they 
appear as monsters, — mean, treacherous, vulgar, and 
sometimes ridiculous. Aside from the part they play in 
the Commedia, the object of the poet was evidently to 
overthrow the evil spirits from the place they occupied 
in the popular imagination. Hence they always appear 
in the most repulsive aspect, unredeemed even by a sin- 
gle good quality \ — differing in this respect from those 
of the " Paradise Lost" and the " Messiah," in both of 
which poems Satan appears as presiding at the council 
of the infernal princes, defying the Deity, and planning 
bold schemes of warfare against His authority. In his 
indomitable pride he stands forth the highest of created 
intelligences, and, although so fallen, he still preserves 
much of his ancient grandeur. The Lucifer of Dante, 
on the contrary, colossal and monstrous in his form, is 
imprisoned in the very depths of hell, firmly wedged in 
everlasting ice, symbolic of treason and death. Bound 
forever to the centre of the earth, choked by universal 
gravitation, oppressed by the burden of all creation, he 
is speechless for eternity, because he dared to excite 
rebellion. He is one and trine in his three monstrous 
faces, the parody of God, man, and nature, because he 



136 



Style. 



thought to wrench the sceptre of the universe from the 
hands of his Creator. Without pride, without heroism, 
without power, he stands there, the svmbol of degrada- 
tion and of impotent hate. 

Although the three Cantiche are integrant parts of 
the whole poem, and one cannot be fully understood 
if not regarded in its relation to the others, their style 
varies in accordance with their different subject, and the 
effect which thev are intended to produce. In the In- 
ferno, which represents the material results of moral 
evil, it mav be called statuesque, the forms and im- 
agery being more material \ the personages and scenes 
are described with a relief and boldness that gives them 
all the tangibility of sculpture. In the Purgatorio, 
where the darkness diminishes and gradually disappears 
as the poet ascends its circles, the real becomes ideal- 
ized, the characters spiritualized \ the scenery is beauti- 
fied by the mingling of light and shadow \ delicious 
landscapes appear, and the descriptions are pictorial. 
Ascending to the heavenly spheres, the light becomes 
more intense, and the sound of music is everywhere 
heard, — the one affording the luminous body, the other 
vocal expression, to the spirits of the blessed. The 
first Cantica mav be also characterized as dramatic, the 
second as artistic and scientific, and the third as philo- 
sophic and contemplative ; while as a whole, the poem, 
representing the contradictions of human life, is marked 
by great contrasts in its scenes and great variety in its 
style. It combines sublimity with simplicity, strength 



the Style. 



*37 



with ardor, and intellectual speculation witn glowing 
imagination. Vigorous and concise, it may be said of 
Dante as has been said of Homer, that it is easier to 
wrench the club from the hand of Hercules than to take 
away a word from his verses without endangering their 
harmony and significance. 

The poem is written in lines of eleven syllables, 
metrically arranged, with the accent falling regularly, in 
accordance with the laws of poetic harmony. Its ver- 
sification is the terza rima, borrowed from the Provencal 
Troubadours, in which the stanzas are composed of 
three lines, one rhyming with two in the following 
stanzas, and so on, the last rhymes of each canto being, 
however, in couplets instead of triplets. In reference 
to the versification, a contemporary of the poet thus 
writes : — u I heard Dante say that a rhyme had never 
led him to say other than he would, but that many a 
time and often he had made words say for him what 
they were not wont to express for other poets." 

The style of Dante is thus eloquently described by 
Thomas Carlyle : — " The three kingdoms, Inferno, 
Purgatorio, Paradiso, look out on one another like 
compartments of a great edifice ; a great supernatural 
world-cathedral, piled up there, stern, solemn, awful ; 
Dante's World of Souls ! It is, at bottom, the sincerest 
of all poems ; sincerity here, too, we find to be the 
measure of worth. It came deep out of the author's 
heart of hearts, and it goes deep and through long 
generations into ours. It has all been as if molten in 
i 3 * 



138 



tfhe Style. 



the hottest furnace of his soul. It has made him lean 
for many years. Nor the general whole only \ every 
compartment of it is worked out, with intense earnest- 
ness, into truth, into clear visuality. Each answers to 
the other ; each finds its place, like a marble stone accu- 
rately hewn and polished. It is the soul of Dante, 
and in this the soul of the middle ages, rendered for- 
ever rhythmically visible there. Through all objects 
he pierces, as it were, down into the heart of Being. 
I know nothing so intense as Dante. Consider, for 
example, how he paints. He has a great power of 
vision j seizes the very type of a thing ; presents that, 
and nothing more. There is a brevity, an abrupt 
precision in him. Tacitus is not briefer, more con- 
densed > and then in Dante it seems a natural conden- 
sation, spontaneous to the man. One smiting word ; 
and then there is silence, nothing more said. His 
silence is more eloquent than words. It is strange 
with what sharp, decisive grace he snatches the true 
likeness of a matter ; cuts into the matter as with a pen 
of fire. The very movements in Dante have some- 
thing brief; swift, decisive, almost military. The 
fiery, swift, Italian nature of the man, so silent, pas- 
sionate, with its quick, abrupt movements, its silent, 
c pale rages,' speaks itself in his verses. His painting is 
not graphic only : brief, true, and of a vividness as of fire 
in dark night ; taken on the wider scale, it is every way 
noble, and the outcome of a great soul. Francesca 
and her lover, what qualities in that ! A thing woven 



< The Style. 



139 



as out of rainbows on a ground of eternal black. A 
small flute-voice of infinite wail speaks there into our 
very heart of hearts. A touch of womanhood is it, 
too. She speaks of c quest a forma* so innocent; and 
how, even in the pit of woe, it is a solace that he will 
never part from her. Saddest tragedy in these alti 
guai! And the raking winds in that aer bruno, whirl 
them away again, forever ! I know not in the world 
an affection equal to that of Dante. It is a tenderness, 
a trembling, longing, pitying love ; like the wail of 
iEolian harps, soft, soft, like a child's young heart ; 
and then that stern, sore, saddened heart ! I do not 
agree with much modern criticism, in greatly preferring 
the Inferno to the two other parts of the Divina Corn- 
media. Such preference belongs, I imagine, to our 
general Byronism of taste, and is like to be a transient 
feeling. The Purgatorio and the Paradiso, especially 
the former, one would almost say, is even more excel- 
lent than it. It is a noble thing that Purgatorio, 
Mountain of Purification, an emblem of the noblest 
conception of that age. If sin is so fatal, and hell is 
and must be so rigorous, awful, yet in repentance, too, 
is man purified ; repentance is the grand Christian act. 
It is beautiful how Dante works it out. The trem- 
bling of the ocean waves, under the first pure gleam of 
morning, dawning afar on the wandering Two, is as the 
type of an altered mood. Hope has now dawned ; 
never-dying hope, if in company still with heavy sor- 
row. The obscure sojourn of demons and reprobates 



140 "the Style. 

is under foot ; a soft breathing of penitence mounts 
higher and higher to the throne of mercy itself. c Pray 
for me/ the denizens of that Mount of Pain all say to 
him. c Tell my Giovanna to pray for me, my daugh- 
ter Giovanna ; I think her mother loves me no more.' 
They toil painfully up by that winding steep, bent down 
like corbels of a building, some of them crushed to- 
gether so for the sin of pride ; yet, nevertheless, in 
years, in ages, and aeons, they shall have reached the 
top, Heaven's gate, and by mercy been admitted in. 
The joy, too, of all, when one has prevailed ; the 
whole mountain shakes with joy, and a psalm of praise 
rises, when one soul has perfected repentance, and got 
its sin and misery left behind. I call all this a noble 
embodiment of a true noble thought. But indeed the 
three compartments materially support one another, are 
indispensable to one another. The Paradiso, a kind of 
inarticulate music to me, is the redeeming side of the 
Inferno ; the Inferno without it were untrue. All 
three make up the true Unseen World, as figured in 
the Christianity of the middle ages ; a thing forever 
memorable, forever true, in the essence of it, to all 
men. It was, perhaps, delineated in no human soul 
with such depth of veracity as in this of Dante's ; a 
man sent to sing it, to keep it long memorable. Very 
notable with what brief simplicity he passes out of the 
every-day reality into the invisible one ; and in the 
second or third stanza we find ourselves in the World 
of Spirits, and dwell there as among things palpable, 



Dante's Influence on Literature. 141 

indubitable. To Dante they were so ; the real world, 
as it is called, and its facts, were but the threshold 
to an infinitely higher fact of a world. At bottom, 
the one was as preternatural as the other. Has not 
each man a soul ? He will not only be a Spirit, but 
is one. To the earnest Dante it is all one visible 
fact ; he believes it, sees it ; is the poet of it, in virtue 
of that." 

To estimate aright the influence of Dante on Italian 
literature, it would be necessary to study its entire his- 
tory. The creator of the national language, he is also 
the recognized founder of the national literature. 
While he lived, his poem, although only partially 
known, was sung by the people, and excited the dread 
of his enemies and the admiration of all Italy. The 
great number of Codici or ancient manuscripts, of 
printed editions, and of commentaries on the Commedia, 
are evidences of the popularity which it has at all times 
enjoyed, and of the interest which it has excited among 
learned men.* At the close of the fourteenth century 

* The number of the Codici of the poem now extant in the libraries of 
Europe is estimated at four hundred and ninety-eight, of which Italy pos- 
sesses about three hundred and ninety, and England sixty, the others being 
distributed among different countries. Five of these manuscripts belong to 
a period preceding 1350, some to the late part of the fourteenth century, 
and some others to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Many are 
written on vellum, others on parchment, with numerous illuminations, and 
usually with an accompanying commentary, taken most frequently from 
the Ottimo Commento, and from the commentaries of Jacopo della Lana, of 
Pietro and Jacopo, sons of the poet, of Boccaccio, Benvenuto da Imola, and 



142 Dante's Influence on Literature. 

it was recited both in France and Italy, as the rhapso 
dists of old recited the Iliad in Greece, one singer giv- 
ing the narrative and the others the dialogue. It is, 
however, to Boccaccio that Italy is particularly indebted 
for early promoting the study of Dante. He wrote 
the biography of the poet, and having transcribed the 
entire poem with his own hand, presented it to Petrarch 
as a precious gift of friendship. This copy, with the 
marginal notes of Petrarch, is still extant in the library 
of the Vatican. 

Although the strife between the Bianchi and Neri 
was still raging, and the enemies of Dante and those 
whom he had condemned to immortal infamy in the 
Commedia were still living, the Florentine people at 
length began to recognize the genius of the great 
poet whom they had so cruelly persecuted. In 1350, 
the government, through the hands of Boccaccio, pre- 
sented a certain sum to his daughter Beatrice, then a 
nun in the convent of Santo Stefano dell' Oliva, in 

Buti, all of whom wrote during the fourteenth century. For the critical 
history of the Codici of the Divina Ccmmedia, their antiquity and value, 
the Prolegomeni Critic} to the edition of the poem by Karl Witte may be 
referred to, as well as the work of Barlow, entitled, " Critical, Historical, and 
Philosophical Contributions to the Study of the Divina Commedia." The 
editions of the poem amount to about four hundred, of which more than 
twenty were published in Italy from the invention of printing to the year 
15005 the earliest having appeared in 147a. During the sixteenth cen- 
tury forty editions were published, three in the seventeenth, and thirty- 
four in the eighteenth century. The commentaries of Landino, Vellutello, 
Venturi, and Lombardi, as well as the more modern writings of Balbo, 
Arrivabene, Pelli, Troya, Fraticelli, Costa, Brunone Bianchi, and others, 
may be consulted with profit. 



Dante's Influence on Literature. 143 

Ravenna; and in 1373 the republic established a free 
chair for the interpretation of the poem, to which Boc- 
caccio was first called. On Sunday, the 3d of Octo- 
ber of the same year, the father of Italian prose, leav- 
ing the solitude to which poverty and ill health had 
confined him, opened his lectures in the Church of 
Santo Stefano, near Ponte Vecchio, before an immense 
audience, who listened with religious devotion to the 
severe rebukes which the great poet hurled against their 
fathers and themselves. Boccaccio continued his lec- 
tures for two years, until his death, in 1375. He was 
succeeded by other eminent scholars, among whom 
were Filippo Villani, in 1391, Francesco Filelfo, in 
143 1, and Cristoforo Landino, in 1457. O n t ^ e estab- 
lishment of the Florentine Academy, by Cosimo de 
Medici, a new impulse was given to the study of Dante, 
through the labors of Marsilio Ficino, Benedetto Varchi, 
the historian Giambullari, Mazzoni, the teacher of Gali- 
leo, and Galileo himself, who lectured before the Acad- 
emy on the Cosmography of the Commedia. Other cities 
rivalled Florence in her early recognition of the great 
poet. Public lectures on Dantean exegesis were every- 
where established, and the study of the poem became 
the standard of the literary progress of the nation. Pe^ 
trarch and Ariosto imitated passages from it ; Tasso 
studied it with patient labor, and left numerous notes 
on the Convito ; while Machiavelli adopted the entire 
political system of the poet, modifying it according to 
the requirements of the time. With the decline of 



144 Dante's Influence on Literature. 

Dante's influence in the seventeenth century, the na- 
tional sentiment declined, but in the eighteenth centurv 
he was restored to his ancient altar bv those high-priests 
of literature, Alfieri, Gravina, Parini, Ugo Foscolo, 
and Monti. Alfieri delighted in the studv of Da:.:e, 
and lost no opportunity to express his obligations to him 
as his teacher and guide. Having set himself the task 
of extracting from the Commedia the most harmonious 
and expressive verses, he copied in his own minute 
handwriting two hundred pages, although his selection 
was confined to a portion of the poem ; and on the first 
page of the manuscript he wrote : — w Had I the courage 
to begin this work again, I would copy the entire poem, 
not omitting a word, convinced as I am that there is 
more to learn from the errors of this poet than from the 
excellences of others." 

It is onlv recently, however, since modern criticism 
has advanced to the dignity of a science, that the study 
of the Conunedia has formed a distinct department, and 
one to which all nations have more or less contributed. 
In France, the translations of Ratisbonne and Lame- 
nais have given popularity to the poem, and the critical 
works of Lenormant, Fauriel, Ozanam, and Quinet 
have added to % it valuable illustrations. England and 
America have not remained behind in offering noble 
tributes to the genius of the Italian poet, as is shown 
by the translations of Cary,* Wright, Pollock, Gayky, 

* The translation of Francis H. Cary, which is natural, faithful, and 
elegant, is the one adopted for the selections here introduced. 



His Influence on Art 145 

Carlyle, Longfellow, Parsons, and Norton, and by the 
labors of the eminent critics Lord Vernon and Barlow. 
But it is in Germany, the classic land of philosophic 
criticism, that Dantophilism has made most rapid pro- 
gress. In the universities of that country the Divina 
Commedia has become a special branch of study, on which 
public lectures have been given by the most distinguished 
critics.* The writings of Schlosser, Kopish, Ruth, We- 
gele, Paur, Blanc, Karl Witte, and Philalethes,f fur- 
nish a vast amount of valuable criticism and research in 
the various branches of history, theology, philosophy, 
and aesthetics, as connected with the interpretation of 
the great poem. 

The influence of Dante on art is not less conspicuous 
than on literature. In his poem, Nature appears as 
matter stamped with the eternal idea of God, and Art 
is exalted as the means through which He elevates 
and advances the race. Art, says Dante, is closely 
akin to the Deity ; she is the daughter of nature, 
whence she must draw, all inspiration. No talent can 

* The programme of lectures on the Divina Commedia, in the principal 
universities of Germany, during the first term of the scholastic year 1864-5, 
is as follows : — 

Gottingen (Hanover), Professor Fittman. — On the life of Dante. 

Wurburg (Bavaria), Professor Wegele. — On Dante and his Works, 

Erlangen (Bavaria), Professor Winterling. — On the Divina Commedia. 

Tubingen (Wurtemberg), Professor Pievre. — On the Divina Commedia. 

Vienna (Austria), Professor Mussafia. — On Dante and his Works. 

Gratz (Austria), Professor Lubin. — On the Paradiso. 

Bonn (Prussia), Professor Delius. — On the Purgatorio. 

Heidelberg (Baden), Professor Ruth, — On the Inferno. 
\ Norn deplume of the present King of Saxony. 
14 



i/j.6 His Influence on Art. 

exist without art, for nature takes her inspiration from 
the celestial mind, and art derives its immutable rules 
from reason. If the artist disregards those rules, he 
produces, not artistic creations, but destructions. The 
poet often speaks of material means as inadequate to 
express ideas, the form according ill with the design of 
art, through the sluggishness of unreplving matter. 
He does not consider pleasure to be the ultimate object 
of art, which, in its highest expression, tends to elevate 
man's character and to increase his love for the Su- 
preme Good. He says that the arts, these visible lan- 
guages, cannot exist without high inspiration ; and of 
himself he says, that he writes onlv under the dictation 
of love. To exert a moral influence through his work, 
the artist must be a moral man, and he cannot truly 
paint a figure, if he cannot be himself that figure. He 
often speaks also of the necessity of svmbols to em- 
body ideas and sentiments, and savs that in their ex- 
pression something divine must beam forth which shall 
transform them into artistic conceptions. He insists 
that the images be truthful, and clearlv defined as fig- 
ures impressed on wax.* 

Thus the Dlvina Co?nmedia is not only a great 
aesthetic work in itself, but contains a treasure of 
aesthetic hints and suggestions, and has ever been re- 
garded by the greatest artists as an inexhaustible mine 
of inspiration. Giotto, as has been said, received from 

* Inferno, xi. ; Purgatorio, x::,. xxvii., xxxiiL. xxiv., xxx, ; Paradiso, i., 

xiii.j xxviL, and j'iri pass:*.*:. 



His Influence on Art. 147 

Dante many suggestions and designs, and Orcagna re- 
produced the scenes of the Inferno in the frescoes of 
the Campo Santo at Pisa, and in those of Santa Maria 
Novella in Florence. The same inspiration may be 
discovered in the admirable paintings of the Last Judg- 
ment by Signorelli in Orvieto, and in those of the Ca- 
thedral of Bologna. The influence of Dante, how- 
ever, is most conspicuous in Michael Angelo, so akin 
to him in his ideas, in his pure and lofty patriotism, as 
well as in his sublime imagination and bold execution. 
He took great delight in the study of the poem, and 
illustrated his own copy with designs on the margin, a 
work now unfortunately lost. In his Last Judgment, 
his Moses, and in the Creation of Man, this influence 
is particularly apparent. It manifests itself, although 
in a less degree, in Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, and 
Titian. More recently, scenes from the Commedia 
have been reproduced, in various styles and with differ- 
ent degrees of merit, by Flaxman, Ary Scheffer, Gustav 
Dore, and Blomberg, whose illustrations, dedicated to 
the King of Saxony, have just appeared. The same 
subjects have been painted by other distinguished artists, 
among whom are Lindenschmidt, whose " Dante and his 
Century" has attracted much attention, and Vogel von 
Vogelstein, whose picture, " The Triumph of Beatrice," 
has recently been presented to the Corporation of 
Florence. The same artist has also in his portfolio a 
series of designs representing the principal scenes in the 
poem and in the life of the poet. 



148 Analysis of the Poem. 

The Divina Com?nedia may be considered as a grand 
dramatic composition, representing in its symbolic ac- 
tion both humanity in its struggle for the conquest of 
civilization, and Italy in its progress towards nationality. 
The Inferno, the Purgatorio, and the Paradiso are the 
three Acts, which represent the beginning, the develop- 
ment, and the conclusion of the drama; and its princi- 
pal personages are Dante, the protagonist ; Beatrice, the 
symbol of Divine Wisdom ; and Virgil, who here ap- 
pears as the bard of the Roman empire, the precursor 
of Christianity, as he was regarded in the middle ages, 
and the symbol of human reason. They are supported 
by innumerable other characters — departed souls, living 
persons, angels, demons, and the personifications of 
ideas and virtues. The unity of the drama is maintained 
by the grouping of the scenes around the principal 
hero, who is ever present and ever prominent ; by the 
philosophic system which pervades it, and the moral and 
political object which it proposes. The representation 
consists of one hundred scenes or cantos, of which 
each Act or Cantica contains thirty-three, with the excep- 
tion of the Inferno, which is formed of thirty-four, the 
first two. of which serve as the prologue to the whole. 



THE PROLOGUE. 

IN the introduction the poet makes us acquainted with 
the circumstances which led to the symbolic journey. 
He imagines himself lost in a gloomy forest. When seek- 
ing to ascend the mountain of civilization, he is opposed 
by a panther, a lion, and a she-wolf. The forest repre- 
sents at once this life, in which man is lost in sin and 
barbarism, and Italy, distracted by political factions. 
The panther, the lion, and the she-wolf are symbols of 
lust, pride, and avarice, in a general sense, and also of 
the anarchy of the political parties in Italy ; of France, 
or rather of Philip the Fair, Charles of Valois, and Robert 
of Anjou ; and of the papacy and Rome under Boniface 
VIII. and his successors. 

In the midway of this our mortal life, 
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray 
Gone from the path direct : and e'en to tell, 
It were no easy task, how savage wild 
That forest, how robust and rough its growth, 
Which to remember only, my dismay 
Renews, in bitterness not far from death. 

How first I entered it I scarce can say, 
Such sleepy dulness in that instant weighed 
My senses down, when the true path I left ; 
But when a mountain's foot I reached, where closed 
The valley that had pierced my heart with dread, 
14* 



ij;o The Prologue. 

I looked aloft, and saw his shoulders broad 

Already vested with that planet's beam, 

Who leads all wanderers safe through every way. 

Then was a little respite to the fear, 
That in my heart's recesses deep had lain 
All of that night, so pitifully passed : 
And as a man, with difficult short breath, 
Forespent with toiling, 'scaped from sea to shore, 
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands 
At gaze ; e'en so my spirit, that yet failed, 
Struggling with terror, turned to view the straits 
That none hath passed and lived. My weary frame 
After short pause recomforted, again 
I journeyed on over that lonely steep, 
The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent 
Began, when lo ! a panther, nimble, light, 
And covered with a speckled skin, appeared ; 
Nor, when it saw me, vanished; rather strove 
To check my onward going ; that oft-times, 
With purpose to retrace my steps, I turned. 

The hour w r as morning's prime, and on his way 
Aloft the sun ascended with those stars, 
That with him rose when Love divine first moved 
Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope 
All things conspired to fill me, the gay skin 
Of that swift animal, the matin dawn 
And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chased, 
And by new dread succeeded, when in view 
A lion came, 'gainst me as it appeared, 
With his head held aloft and hunger-mad, 
That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf 
Was at his heels, who in her leanness seemed 
Full of all wants, and many a land hath made 



tfhe Prologue. \$\ 

Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear 
O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appalled, 
That of the height all hope I lost. As one, 
Who, with his gain elated, sees the time 
When all un'wares is gone, he inwardly 
Mourns with heart-griping anguish ; such was I 
Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace, 
Who coming o'er against me, by degrees 
Impelled me where the sun in silence rests. 

While to the lower space with backward step 
I fell, my ken discerned the form of one 
Whose voice seemed faint through long disuse of speech. 
When him in that great desert I espied, 
" Have mercy on me," cried I out aloud, 
"Spirit ! or living man ! whate'er thou be." 

He answered : " Now not man, man once I was, 
And born of Lombard parents, Mantuans both 
By country, when the power of Julius yet 
Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was passed, 
Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time 
Of fabled deities and false. A bard 
Was I, and made Anchises' upright son 
The subject of my song, who came from Troy, 
When the flames preyed on Ilium's haughty towers. 
But thou, say wherefore to such perils past 
Return'st thou ? wherefore not this pleasant mount 
Ascendest, cause and source of all delight ?" 

CI And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring 
From which such copious floods of eloquence 
Have issued ?" I with front abashed replied. 
€t Glory and light of all the tuneful train ! 
May it avail me, that I long with zeal 
Have sought thy volume, and with love immense 



1^2 c the Prologue. 

Have conned it o'er. My master thou, and guide ! 

Thou he from whom alone I have derived 

That style, which for its beauty into fame 

Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled. 

O save me from her, thou illustrious sage ! 

For every vein and pulse throughout my frame 

She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw 

That I was weeping, answered : " Thou must needs 

Another way pursue, if thou wouldst 'scape 

From out that savage wilderness. This beast. 

At whom thou criest, her way will suiter none 

To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death. 

So bad and so accursed in her kind, 

That never sated is her ravenous will, 

Still after food more craving than before. 

To many an animal in wedlock vile 

She fastens, and shall yet to many more, 

Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy 

Her with sharp pain. He will not life support 

By earth nor its base metals, but by love, 

Wisdom, and virtue ; and his land shall be 

The land 'twixt either Feltro. In his might 

Shall safety to Italia's plains arise, 

For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure, 

Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell. 

He, with incessant chase, through every town 

Shall worry, until he to hell at length 

Restore her, thence by envy first let loose." 

Commentators do not agree in the interpretation of 
the above passage, where the poet predicts the advent of 
a redeemer, under the symbol of a greyhound ; but it is 
commonly believed that it refers either to Can Grande 



< The Prologue. 153 

della Scala, to Uguccione della Faggiuola, or, in a gen- 
eral sense, to a chieftain who should arise at some 
future time. 

Virgil now offers to conduct Dante through the 
realms of despair and expiation, promising that a wor- 
thier Spirit will lead him through the regions of the 
blessed. He accepts the offer ; and while the air is 
imbrowned with shadows, and night is falling over the 
earth, the two poets depart.* 

Dante expresses the fear that he has not sufficient 
virtue for this high enterprise. But Virgil exhorts him 
to take courage, and relates that in Limbo, the resting- 
place of his soul, he was called by a Lady, whose 

" eyes were brighter than the star 
Of day ; and she, with gentle voice and soft, 
Angelically tuned, her speech addressed : 
c O courteous shade of Mantua ! thou whose fame 
Yet lives, and shall live long as nature lasts ! 
A friend, not of my fortune but myself 
On the wide desert in his road has met 
Hindrance so great, that he through fear has turned. 
Now much I dread lest he past help have strayed, 
And I be risen too late for his relief, 
From what in heaven of him I heard. Speed now, 
And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue, 
And by all means for his deliverance meet, 
Assist him. So to me will comfort spring. 
I, who now bid thee on this errand forth, 
Am Beatrice ; from a place I come 

* Inferno 5 i. 



154 The Prologue. 

Revisited with joy. Love brought me thence, 

Who prompts my speech. When in my Master's sight 

I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell.' 

s ' She then was silent, and I thus began : 
c O Lady ! by whose influence alone 
Mankind excels whatever is contained 
Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb, 
So thy command delights me, that to obey, 
If it were done already, would seem late. 
No need hast thou further to speak thy will : 
Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loath 
To leave that ample space, where to return 
Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath.' " 

Here Beatrice narrates that a blessed Lady, residing 
in high Heaven (Divine Providence), had come to Lucia 
(Divine Mercy), and had recommended Dante to her ; 
that Lucia, the foe of all cruelty, had appeared to her. 

" e She thus addressed me : " Thou true praise of God, 
Beatrice ! why is not thy succor lent 
To him, who so much loved thee, as to leave 
For thy sake all the multitude admires ? 
Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail, 
Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood, 
Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds ?" 
Ne'er among men did any with such speed 
Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy, 
As when these words were spoken, I came here, 
Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force 
Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all 
Who well have marked it, into honor brings.' 

" When she had ended, her bright beaming eyes 



c the Prologue. i$$ 

Tearful she turned aside ; whereat I felt 
Redoubled zeal to serve thee. As she willed, 
Thus am I come : I saved thee from the beast, 
Who thy near way across the goodly mount 
Prevented. What is this comes o'er thee then ? 
Why, why dost thou hang back ? why in thy breast 
Harbor vile fear ? why hast not courage there, 
And noble daring; since three maids, so blest, 
Thy safety plan, e'en in the court of heaven ; 
And so much certain good my words forebode ?" 

As florets, by the frosty air of night 
Bent down and closed, when day has blanched their leaves, 
Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems ; 
So was my fainting vigor new restored, 
And to my heart such kindly courage ran, 
That I as one undaunted soon replied : 
" O full of pity she, who undertook 
My succor ! and thou kind, who didst perform 
So soon her true behest ! With such desire 
Thou hast disposed me to renew my voyage, 
That my first purpose fully is resumed. 
Lead on : one only will is in us both. 
Thou art my guide, my master thou, and lord." 

So spake I ; and when he had onward moved, 
I entered on the deep and woody way.* 

* Inferno, ii. 



INFERNO. 

THE Inferno represents an immense cone, its apex 
extending to the centre of the earth, and its base 
opening at the surface ; hollowed within are the infernal 
caverns, which descend spirally around the cone, divided 
into circular compartments, distant from each other, 
concentric, and narrowing as thev descend. According 
to the calculation of Galileo, from the data given bv 
the poet, the dimensions of the Inferno, expressed in 
numbers, would be four thousand miles in depth, and as 
many in breadth at its upper circumference. It is pre- 
ceded bv a vestibule, which opens beneath the forest at 
the " Fauces Averni" near Cuma, and consists of nine 
circles, with Dante a sacred number, arranged according 
to the sins punished within their limits, the punishments 
and the demons which preside over them having always 
a symbolic meaning. The order of the infernal re- 
gions is as follows: — I. The Vestibule; 2. The 
Limbo, where unbaptized infants, heathen sages, and 
poets dwell ; 3. The Circle of Lust ; 4. Gluttony ; 5. 
Avarice and prodigality ; 6. Anger, rage, and furv ; 7. 
Atheism and infidelity ; 8. Violence ; 9. Fraud ; 10. 
Treason. The poet imagines himself beginning his 
mystic journey at the age of thirtv-five years, in Holy 
Week, in the year of the Jubilee, 1300. The time 



T/fe Neutrals. 157 

spent in the Inferno was computed to be about three 
days. 

Descending to the dreary entrance, Dante marks, in 
color dim, over a lofty portal's arch, inscribed : — 

Through me you pass into the city of woe : 
Through me you pass into eternal pain : 
Through me among the people lost for aye. 
Justice the founder of my fabric moved : 
To rear me was the task of power divine, 
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love : 
Before me things create were none, save things 
Eternal, and eternal I endure. 
All hope abandon, ye who enter here. 

He hesitates, but, reassured by his guide, they enter 
the vestibule. 1 

Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans, 
Resounded through the air, pierced by no star, 
That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, 
Horrible languages, outcries of woe, 
Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, 
With hands together smote that swelled the sounds, 
Made up a tumult, that forever whirls 
Round through that air with solid darkness stained, 
Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. 

I then, with horror yet encompassed, cried : 
" O master ! what is this I hear ? what race 
Are these, who seem so overcome with woe ?" 

He thus to me : <c This miserable fate 
Suffer the wretched souls of those, who lived 
15 



158 ^the River Acheron. 

Without or praise or blame, with that ill band 

Of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved, 

Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves 

Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth, 

Not to impair his lustre ; nor the depth 

Of Hell receives them, lest the accursed tribe 

Should glory thence with exultation vain." 

I then : ' ( Master ! what doth aggrieve them thus, 
That they lament so loud ?" He straight replied : 
" That will I tell thee briefly. These of death 
No hope may entertain : and their blind life 
So meanly passes, that all other lots 
They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, 
Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. 
Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." 

And I, who straightway looked, beheld a flag, 
Which whirling ran around so rapidly, 
That it no pause obtained : and following came 
Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er 
Have thought that death so many had despoiled. 

.... Forthwith 
I understood, for certain, this the tribe 
Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing 
And to His foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived, 
Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung 
By wasps and hornets, which bedewed their cheeks 
With blood, that, mixed with tears, dropped to their feet, 
And by disgustful worms was gathered there. 

They reach the shore of Acheron, the river of sorrow, 
which divides the vestibule into two parts, the one re- 
served for those who lived in a state of apathy both to 
good and evil, the other Limbo, the first circle of hell. 



Charon. 159 

On this bank they behold a throng of shades awaiting 
the approach of Charon, eager to cross the river. 

.... And lo ! toward us in a bark 

Comes on an old man, hoary white with eld, 

Crying : Woe to you, wicked spirits ! hope not 

Ever to see the sky again. I come 

To take you to the other shore across 

Into eternal darkness, there to dwell 

In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there 

Standest live spirit ! get thee hence, and leave 

These who are dead. 

But Virgil puts the grim boatman to silence by say- 
ing :— 

" Charon ! thyself torment not : so 'tis willed 

Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more." 

Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks 

Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, 

Around whose eyes glared wheeling flames. Meanwhile 

Those spirits, faint and naked, color changed, 

And gnashed their teeth, soon as the cruel words 

They heard. God and their parents they blasphemed, 

The human kind, the place, the time and seed 

That did engender them and give them birth. 

Then all together sorely wailing drew 
To the cursed strand that every man must pass 
Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form, 
With eyes of burning coal, collects them all, 
Beckoning, and each, that lingers, with his oar 
Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves 
One still another following, till the bough 
Strews all its honors on the earth beneath; 



i6o Hhe Limbo. 

E'en in like manner Adam's evil brood 

Cast themselves, one by one, down from the shore 

Each at a beck, as falcon at his call. 

Thus go they over through the umbered wave ; 
And ever they on the opposing bank 
Be landed, on this side another throng 
Still gathers. t€ Son," thus spake the courteous guide, 
" Those who die subject to the wrath of God 
All here together come from every clime, 
And to o'erpass the river are not loath : 
For so Heaven's justice goads them on, that fear 
Is turned into desire. Hence ne'er hath passed 
Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, 
Nowmayst thou know the import of his words." 

This said, the gloomy region trembling shook 
So terribly, that yet with clammy dews 
Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast, 
That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame, 
Which all my senses conquered quite, and I 
Down dropped, as one with sudden slumber seized.* 

Awakened by a crash of thunder, the poet finds him- 
self on the brink of the dread abyss, dark, deep, and 
overhung with thick clouds. Following Virgil, he 
descends to the edge of Limbo, in which the spirits of 
those who served not God aright, or from lack of bap- 
tism and of knowledge of the true God, are doomed to 
live forever in desire without hope. 

Here, as mine ear could note, no plaint was heard 
Except of sighs, that made the eternal air 
Tremble, not caused by tortures, but from grief 

* Inferno, iii. 



T.he Poets. 161 

Felt by those multitudes, many and vast, 
Of men, women, and infants. 

To the inquiries of Dante, if any spirits ever came 
forth thence, and were afterwards blessed, Virgil replies, 
referring to the descent of Christ into hell : — 

" I was new to that estate, 
When I beheld a puissant One arrive 
Among us, with victorious trophy crowned. 
He forth the shade of our first parent drew, 
Abel his child, and Noah righteous man, 
Of Moses lawgiver for faith approved, 
Of patriarch Abraham, and David king, 
Israel with his sire and with his sons, 
Nor without Rachel whom so hard he won, 
And others many more, whom He to bliss 
Exalted. Before these, be thou assured, 
No spirit of human kind was ever saved.' 

A flame is now seen in the distance ; the dark hemi- 
sphere is illumined, and the company of poets appear — 
Horace, Ovid, and Lucan, — led by Homer, bearing 
in his hand a sword, to indicate the mission of the 
poet as legislator and founder of society. 

Meantime a voice I heard : " Honor the bard 
Sublime ! his shade returns, that left us late !" 
No sooner ceased the sound, than I beheld 
Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps, 
Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad. 

So I beheld united the bright school 
Of him the monarch of sublimest song, 
That o'er the others like an eagle soars. 



162 tfhe Heroes and Heroines. 

When they together short discourse had held, 
They turned to me, with salutation kind 
Beckoning me; at the which my master smiled : 
Nor was this all ; but greater honor still 
They gave me, for they made me of their tribe ; 
And I was sixth amid so learned a band. 

They pass on together, and arrive at a magnificent 
castle, symbolizing Wisdom, girt seven times with lofty 
walls, and defended by a pleasant stream : the former, 
emblems of the moral and civil virtues in which wisdom 
consists ; the latter, of eloquence, the means through 
which these virtues are communicated. They pass 
over the stream as over dry land \ and enter, through 
seven gates, 

Into a meaa with lively verdure fresh. 

There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around 
Majestically moved, and in their port 
Bore eminent authority : they spake 
Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet. 

We to one side retired, into a place 
Open and bright and lofty, whence each one 
Stood manifest to view. Incontinent, 
There on the green enamel of the plain 
Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight 
I am exalted in my own esteem. 

Here he sees the heroes and the heroines of antiqui- 
ty : Electra, the mother of Dardanus, the founder of 
Troy ; Hector, iEneas, and Caesar ; King Latinus, 
with his daughter Lavinia ; Brutus, who expelled 



Minos. 163 

Tarquin ; Marcia, the wife of Cato ; and, apart from 
all others, Saladin, the fierce rival of Richard Coeur de 
Lion. Looking upward, he beholds Aristotle, the 
master of the sapient throng, surrounded by the ancient 
philosophers, chief among whom are Socrates and 
Plato.* 

Descending to the second circle, they behold Minos, 
the infernal judge, the symbol of conscience, 

Grinning with ghastly feature : he, of all 

Who enter, strict examining the crimes, 

Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath. 

According as he foldeth him around : 

For when before him comes the ill-fated soul, 

It all confesses; and that judge severe 

Of sins, considering what place in hell 

Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft 

Himself encircles, as degrees beneath 

He dooms it to descend. Before him stand 

Alway a numerous throng ; and in his turn 

Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears 

His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurled. 

" O thou ! who to this residence of woe 
Approachest !" when he saw me coming, cried 
Minos, relinquishing his dread employ, 
" Look how thou enter here ; beware in whom 
Thou place thy trust ; let not the entrance broad 
Deceive thee to thy harm." To him my guide : 
" Wherefore exclaimest ? Hinder not his way 
By destiny appointed ; so 'tis willed, 
Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more." 

* Inferno, iv. 



164 Franc esc a da Rimini. 

Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard. 
Now am I come where many a plaining voice 
Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came 
Where light v/as silent all. Bellowing there groaned 
A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn 
By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell 
With restless fury drives the spirits on, 
Whirled round and dashed amain with sore annoy. 
When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, 
There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans, 
And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven. 

I understood, that to this torment sad 
The carnal sinners are condemned, in whom 
Reason by lust is swayed. As in large troops 
And multitudinous, when winter reigns, 
The starlings on their wings are borne abroad ; 
So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls. 
On this side and on that, above, below, 
It drives them : hope of rest to solace them 
Is none, nor e'en of milder pang. As cranes, 
Chanting their dolorous notes, traverse the sky, 
Stretched out in long array ; so I beheld 
Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on 
By their dire doom. 

Here the shades of Semiramis, Dido, Cleopatra, 
Helen, Achilles, Parides, and Tristan appear, followed 
by thousands of others. The poet desires to address 
two whom he sees approaching. They ar^e Francesca 
and Paolo, whose story, so full of pathos, tenderness, 
and grace, forms one of the most celebrated episodes of 
the Gommedia. Francesca was the daughter of Guido 
da Polenta, Lord of Ravenna, the sister of Bernardino, 



Franc esc a da Rimini. \b$ 

once companion in arms to Dante, and aunt o,f Guido 
Novello, his patron and friend. Young and beautiful, 
she had been married, against her will, to Lanciotto, a 
man of great courage, but deformed in person, while 
she was loved most tenderly by his more attractive 
brother Paolo, both sons of Malatesta, Lord of Rimini. 
Francesca and Paolo continued to love each other after 
her marriage, and, in 1289, being one day surprised by 
Lanciotto, they were slain on the spot. As the two 
shades, embracing each other, are borne by the wind 
near Dante, he thus speaks to his guide : — 

"Bard! willingly 
I would address those two together coming, 
Which seem so light before the wind." He thus : 
" Note thou, when nearer they to us approach. 
Then by that love which carries them along, 
Entreat; and they will come." Soon as the wind 
Swayed them towards us, I thus framed my speech : 
" O wearied spirits ! come and hold discourse 
With us, if by none else restrained." As doves 
By fond desire invited, on wide wings 
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, 
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along ; 
Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks, 
They, through the ill air speeding : with such force 
My cry prevailed, by strong affection urged. 

" O gracious creature and benign ! who go'st 
Visiting, through this element obscure, 
Us, whom the world, with bloody stain imbrued ; 
If, for a friend, the King of all we owned, 
Our prayer to Him should for thy peace arise, 



166 France sea da Rimini. 

Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. 
Of whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse 
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that 
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, 
As now, is mute. The land that gave me birth, 
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends 
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. 

" Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learned, 
Entangled him by that fair form, from me 
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still : 
Love, that denial takes from none beloved, 
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, 
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not. 
Love brought us to one death : Caina* waits 
The soul, who spilt our life." Such were their words; 
At hearing which, downv/ard I bent my looks, 
And held them there so long, that the bard cried : 
61 What art thou pondering ?" I in answer thus : 
<c Alas ! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire 
Must they at length to that ill pass have reached!" 

Then turning, I to them my speech addressed, 
And thus began : ' ' Francesca ! your sad fate 
Even to tears my grief and pity moves. 
But tell me ; in the time of your sweet sighs, 
By what, and how Love granted, that ye knew 
Your yet uncertain wishes ?" She replied : 
" No greater grief than to remember days 
Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens 
Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly 
If thou art bent to know the primal root, 
From whence our love gat being, I will do 

* The place in hell where the murderers of their own relatives are 
punished. 



tfhe Gluttonous; Cerberus. 167 

As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, 
For our delight we read of Lancelot, 
How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no 
Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading 
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue 
Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point 
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, 
The wished smile, so rapturously kissed 
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er 
From me shall separate, at once my lips 
All trembling kissed. The book and writer both 
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day 
We read no more." While thus one spirit spake, 
The other wailed so sorely, that heart-struck 
I, through compassion fainting, seemed not far 
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground. * 

The poet now finds himself in the third circle, de- 
voted to the punishment of the gluttonous. As the 
vice of gluttony particularly dulls and deadens the 
intellectual powers of man, it is represented as punished 
in a region where darkness reigns supreme, presided 
over by the demon Cerberus, the devourer. 

In the third circle I arrive, of showers 
Ceaseless, accursed, heavy and cold, unchanged 
Forever, both in kind and in degree. 
Large hail, discolored water, sleety flaw 
Through the dun midnight air streamed down amain ; 
Stank all the land whereon that tempest fell. 

Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange, 
Through his wide threefold throat, barks as a dog 

** Inferno, v. 



168 Ciacco, the Pig. 

Over the multitude immersed beneath. 

His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard, 

His belly large, and clawed the hands with which 

He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs 

Piecemeal disparts. Howling there spread, as curs, 

Under the rainy deluge, with one side 

The other screening, oft they rolled them round, 

A wretched, godless crew. When that great worm 

Descried us, savage Cerberus, he oped 

His jaws, and the fangs showed us ; not a limb 

Of him but trembled. Then my guide, his palms 

Expanding on the ground, thence filled with earth 

Raised them, and cast it in his ravenous maw. 

E'en as a dog, that yelling bays for food 

His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall 

His fury, bent alone with eager haste 

To swallow it ; so dropped the loathsome cheeks 

Of demon Cerberus, who thundering stuns 

The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain. 

We, o'er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt 
Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet 
Upon their emptiness, that substance seemed. 

They all along the earth extended lay. 

As the poet approaches, he is addressed by the shade 
of a Florentine, called, from his gluttonous habits, 
Ciacco, the pig. He foretells the strife which will 
distract Florence, and says that in all the city there are 
but two just men, meaning, perhaps, Dante himself, 
and Guido Cavalcanti, whom, however, the people 
neglect ; for avarice, envy, and pride have fired the 
hearts of all. Ciacco informs the poet of several other 



T'he Prodigal and Avaricious. 169 

Florentines recently condemned to this place, and as he 
falls among his blind companions, Dante and Virgil 
continue their way, and descend to the fourth circle, 
which is under the superintendence of Plutus, the 
infernal god of avarice, where the prodigal and the 
avaricious are doomed, with mutual upbraidings, to roll 
great weights against each other.* 

On seeing Dante led by Virgil, or, as an old com- 
mentator says, Humanity led by Reason, Plutus opposes 
their entrance, but he is subdued by Virgil. 

Thus we, descending to the fourth steep ledge, 
Gained on the dismal shore, that all the woe 
Hems in of all the universe. Ah me ! 
Almighty Justice ! in what store thou heap'st 
New pains, new troubles, as I here beheld. 
Wherefore doth fault of ours bring us to this ? 

E'en as a billow, on Charybdis rising, 
Against encountered billow dashing breaks; 
Such is the dance this wretched race must lead, 
Whom more than elsewhere numerous here I found. 
From one side and the other, with loud voice, 
Both rolled on weights, by main force of their breasts, 
Then smote together, and each one forthwith 
Rolled them back voluble, turning again ; 
Exclaiming these, " Why holdest thou so fast ?" 
Those answering, " And why castest thou away ?" 
So, still repeating their despiteful song, 
They to the opposite point, on either hand, 
Traversed the horrid circle ; then arrived, 

* Inferno, vi. 
16 



170 The Prodigal and Avaricious. 

Both turned them round, and through the middle space 
Conflicting met again. At sight whereof 
I, stung with grie£ thus spake : " O say, my guide ! 
What race is this ? Were these, whose heads are shorn, 
On our left hand, all separate to the church ?" 

He straight replied : " In their first life, these all 
In mind were so distorted, that they made, 
According to due measure, of their wealth 
No use. This clearly from their words collect, 
Which they howl forth, at each extremity 
Arriving of the circle, where their crime 
Contrary in kind disparts them. To the church 
Were separate those, that with no hairy cowls 
Are crowned, both Popes and Cardinals, over whom 
Avarice dominion absolute maintains." 

The poet supposes that he may recognize some 
among the number ; but Virgil replies : — 

" Vain thought conceivest thou. That ignoble life 
Which made them vile before, now makes them dark, 
And to all knowledge indiscernible. 
Forever they shall meet in this rude shock : 
These from the tomb with clenched grasp shall rise, 
Those with close-shaved locks. That ill they gave 
And ill they kept, hath of the beauteous world 
Deprived, and set them at this strife, which needs 
No labored phrase of mine to set it off. 
Now may'st thou see, my son ! how brief, how vain, 
The goods committed into Fortune's hands, 
For which the human race keep such a coil : 
Not all the gold that is beneath the moon, 
Or ever hath been, of these toil-worn souls 
Might purchase rest for one," 



Fortune. 171 

A description of Fortune here follows, in which the 
poet mingles the ancient idea of Fate with the doctrine 
of the Arabians on the supreme created intelligence 
which presides over the world, and with those of his 
own age on Divine Providence. Fortune thus sym- 
bolizes the cosmical and social law 7 s which affect the 
destinies of nations and races, independent of their 
control. 

He whose transcendent wisdom passes all, 
The heavens creating gave them ruling powers 
To guide them ; so that each part shines to each, 
Their light in equal distribution poured. 
By similar appointment he ordained 
Over the world's bright images to rule, 
Superintendence of a guiding hand 
And general minister, which at due time 
May change the empty vantages of life 
From race to race, from one to other's blood, 
Beyond prevention of man's wisest care : 
Wherefore one nation rises into sway, 
Another languishes, e'en as her will 
Decrees, from us concealed, as in the grass 
The serpent train. Against her naught avails 
Your utmost wisdom. She with foresight plans, 
Judges, and carries on her reign, as theirs 
The other powers divine. Her changes know 
None intermission : by necessity 
She is made swift, so frequent come w r ho claim 
Succession in her favors. This is she, 
So execrated e'en by those whose debt 
To her is rather praise ; they wrongfully 
With blame requite her, and with evil word ; 



172 The Wrathful and Slothful. 

But she is blessed, and for that recks not : 
Amidst the other primal beings glad, 
Rolls on her sphere, and in her bliss exults. 

The poets now cross the circle to the next steep, 
and reach a boiling well, whose murky waters expand 
into the Stygian lake of hatred and sadness, where the 
wrathful and the slothful are immersed. 

Intent I stood 
To gaze, and in the marish sunk descried 
A miry tribe, all naked, and with looks 
Betokening rage. They with their hands alone 
Struck not, but with the head, the breast, the feet, 
Cutting each other piecemeal with their fangs. 

The good instructor spake : " Now seest thou, son ! 
The souls of those, whom anger overcame. 
This too for certain know, that underneath 
The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs 
Into these bubbles make the surface heave, 
As thine eye tells thee wheresoever it turn. 
Fixed in the slime, they say : f Sad once were we, 
In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun, 
Carrying a foul and lazy mist within : 
Now in these murky settlings are we sad.' 
Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats, 
But word distinct can utter none."* 

Arriving at the base of a lofty turret, a signal is 
raised and answered, and soon a small bark, ferried by 
Phlegyas, the demon of ire, is seen coming over the 
lake, 

* Inferno, viL 



Filippo Argenti. 173 

Never was arrow from the cord dismissed, 
That ran its way so nimbly through the air, 
As a small bark, that through the waves I spied 
Toward us coming, under the sole sway 
Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud : 
"Art thou arrived, fell spirit?" — "Phlegyas, Phlegyas, 
This time thou criest in vain," my lord replied ; 
"No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er 
The slimy pool we pass." As one who hears 
Of some great wrong he hath sustained, whereat 
Inly he pines ; so Phlegyas inly pined 
In his fierce ire. My guide, descending, stepped 
Into the skiff, and bade me enter next, 
Close at his side ; nor, till my entrance, seemed 
The vessel freighted. Soon as both embarked, 
Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow, 
More deeply than with others it is wont. 

As they hold their course across the dead channel, 
the shade of Filippo Argenti, a Florentine, noted for 
his wealth and his proud and violent character, ap- 
proaches, and thus addresses Dante : — 

" Who art thou, that thus comest ere thine hour ?" 
I answered : " Though I come, I tarry not ; 
But who art thou, that art become so foul ?" 
" One, as thou seest, who mourn :" he straight replied. 
To which I thus : "In mourning and in woe, 
Cursed spirit ! tarry thou. I know thee well, 
E'en thus in filth disguised." Then stretched he forth 
Hands to the bark ; whereof my teacher sage 
Aware, thrusting him back : " Away ! down there 
To the other dogs !" then, with his arms my neck 
16* 



174 ^ e City of Dis. 

Encircling, kissed my cheek, and spake : " O soul, 

Justly disdainful ! blest was she in whom ■■ 

Thou wast conceived. He in the world was one 

For arrogance noted : to his memory 

No virtue lends its lustre ; even so 

Here is his shadow furious. There above 

How many now hold themselves mighty kings 

Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire, 

Leaving behind them horrible dispraise." 

I then : u Master ! him fain would I behold 

Whelmed in these dregs, before we quit the lake." 

He thus : tc Or ever to thy view the shore 

Be offered, satisfied shall be that wish, 

Which well deserves completion." Scarce his words 

Were ended, when I saw the miry tribes 

Set on him with such violence, that yet 

For that render I thanks to God, and praise. 

" To Filippo Argenti !" cried they all : 

And on himself the moody Florentine 

Turned his avenging fangs. Him here we left, 

Nor speak I of him more. 

The city of Dis, the beginning of the deeper hell, 
standing on the other shore of the lake, appears in 
sight, its towers and walls gleaming with the eternal 
fire that inward burns. The travellers are landed at 
the gates, which are guarded by a thousand demons, 
who, with ireful imprecations and gestures, forbid their 
approach. Virgil demands a secret parley, which is 
granted, on condition that he comes alone : — 

They spake: <e Come thou alone; and let him go 
Who hath so hardily entered this realm. 



The Furies. 175 

Alone return he by his witless way ; 

If well he know it, let him prove. For thee 

Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark 

Hast been his escort." Now bethink thee, reader! 

What cheer was mine at sound of those cursed words : 

I did believe I never should return. 

" O my loved guide ! who more than seven times 
Security hast rendered me, and drawn 
From peril deep, whereto I stood exposed, 
Desert me not," I cried, " in this extreme. 
And if our onward going be denied, 
Together trace we back our steps with speed." 

My liege, who thither had conducted me, 
Replied : " Fear not ; for of our passage none 
Hath power to disappoint us, by such high 
Authority permitted. But do thou 
Expect me here ; meanwhile, thy wearied spirit 
Comfort, and feed with kindly hope, assured 
I will not leave thee in this lower world." 

After a short conference, the demons rush back, and 
close the gates. Virgil returns with tardy steps, his 
eyes bent on the ground, and confidence banished from 
his brow. He assures Dante, however, that he shall 
yet vanquish, and that a messenger from God will soon 
come to their succor.* 

While they wait, the poet, lifting his eyes to the 
burning summit of a tower, sees standing there — 

At once three hellish furies stained with blood : 
In limb and motion feminine they seemed ; 

* Inferno, viii. 



176 "The Angel of God. 

Around them greenest hydras twisting rolled 
Their volumes ; adders and cerastes crept 
Instead of hair, and their fierce temples bound. 

The furies are the symbols of remorse, while Me- 
dusa represents sensual pleasure, which dims the intel- 
lect and hardens the heart. 

Their breast they each one clawing tore ; themselves 

Smote with their palms, and such shrill clamor raised, 

That to the bard I clung, suspicion-bound. 

" Hasten, Medusa : so to adamant 

Him shall we change •" all looking down exclaimed : 

" E'en when by Theseus' might assailed, we took 

No ill revenge." — "Turn thyself round, and keep 

Thy countenance hid : for if the Gorgon dire 

Be shown, and thou shouldst view it, thy return 

Upwards would be forever lost." This said, 

Himself my gentle master, turned me round ; 

Nor trusted he my hands, but with his own 

He also hid me. Ye of intellect 

Sound and entire, mark well the ore concealed 

Under close texture of the mystic strain. 

And now there came o'er the perturbed waves 
Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made 
Either shore tremble, as if of a wind 
Impetuous, from conflicting vapors sprung, 
That 'gainst some forest driving ail his might, 
Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls 
Afar; then, onward passing, proudly sweeps 
His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly. 

Mine eyes he loosed, and spake : c ' And now direct 
Thy visual nerve along that ancient foam, 
There, thickest where the smoke ascends." As frogs 



Atheists and Infidels. 



177 



Before their foe the serpent, through the wave 

Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one 

Lies on a heap ; more than a thousand spirits 

Destroyed, so saw I fleeing before one 

Who passed with unwet feet the Stygian sound. 

He, from his face removing the gross air, 

Oft his left hand forth stretched, and seemed alone 

By that annoyance wearied. I perceived 

That he was sent from heaven ; and to my guide 

Turned me, who signal made, that I should stand 

Quiet, and bend to him. Ah me ! how full 

Of noble anger seemed he ! To the gate 

He came, and with his wand touched it, whereat 

Open without impediment it flew. 

" Outcasts of heaven ! O abject race, and scorned !" 
Began he, on the horrid grunsel standing, 
" Whence doth this wild excess of insolence 
Lodge in you ? wherefore kick you 'gainst that will 
Ne'er frustrate of its end, and which so oft 
Hath laid on you enforcement of your pangs ? 
What profits, at the fates to butt the horn ? 
Your Cerberus, if ye remember, hence 
Bears, still peeled of their hair, his throat and maw." 

The angel turns back, and the poets enter the city, 
which is overspread with burning sepulchres, their lids 
suspended above them. Issuing from beneath, they 
hear the lamentable moans of the tortured spirits of 
arch-heretics, and of the followers of Epicurus, who 
with the body make the spirit die.* 

They proceed bv a secret pathway between the walls 



* Inferno, ix. 



iy8 Farinata degli XJberti. 

and the sepulchres, conversing on the horror of the 
place, Suddenly a voice is heard : — 

a O Tuscan ! thou, who through the city of fire 
Alive ar: pass:::o. so discreet cf soeech : 
Here, please thee, s:ay awhile. Thy u::erance 
Declares the place of thy nativity 

To be :ha: noble land, with, which perchance 
I too severely deal;." 

The voice comes from Farinata degli Uberti, a 
noble Florentine, a leader of the Ghibelins, who had 
twice succeeded in defeating the Guelphs and expelling 
them from Florence. After the battle of Monteaperti, 
the Ghibelins resolved to level Florence to the ground, 
a sentence which Farinata alone had efficiently op- 
posed. He is represented by Dante as the type of 
aristocratic haughtiness and indomitable passion, min- 
gled with a noble devotion to his country. The sound 
of his words causes Dante to approach closer to his 
guide, who says to him : — 

. . . . " What dost thou : Turn : 
Lo ! Farinata there, who hath himself 
Uplifted : front his girdle onwards, all 
Exposed, behold him." On his race was mine 
Already fixed : his breast and forehead there 
Erect::: z, scented as in high scorn he held 
E'en hell. Between the sepulchres, to him 
My guide thrust me, with fea: 1: :::n: ; 

This warning " See thy words be clear." 

He. soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot, 



Cavalcante CavalcantL 



179 



Eyed me a space ; then in disdainful mood 
Addressed me : " Say what ancestors were thine." 

I, willing to obey him, straight revealed 
The whole, nor kept back aught : whence he, his brow 
Somewhat uplifting, cried : " Fiercely were they 
Adverse to me, my party, and the blood 
From whence I sprang : twice, therefore, I abroad 
Scattered them. " " Though driven out, yet they each time 
From all parts," answered I, ce returned; an art 
Which yours have shown they are not skilled to learn." 

The poet is suddenly interrupted by the shade of 
Cavalcante Cavalcanti, the father of Guido, his friend — 

Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw, 
Rose from his side a shade, high as the chin, 
Leaning, methought, upon his knees upraised. 
It looked around, as eager to explore 
If there were other with me ; but perceiving 
That fond imagination quenched, with tears 
Thus spake : " If thou through this blind prison go'st, 
Led by thy lofty genius and profound, 
Where is my son ! and wherefore not with thee ?" 

I straight replied : " Not of myself I come ; 
By him, who there expects me, through this clime 
Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son 
Had in contempt." Already had his words 
And mode of punishment read me his name, 
Whence I so fully answered. He at once 
Exclaimed, upstarting : " How ! saidst thou, he had? 
No longer lives he ? Strikes not on his eye 
The blessed daylight ?" Then, of some delay 
I made ere my reply, aware, down fell 
Supine, nor after forth appeared he more. 



180 Farinata degli Uberti. 

This episode, while it records the poet's friendship 
for Guido, gives relief to the proud character of Fari- 
nata, who still remains unmoved, as if absorbed by the 
bitter remembrance of defeat which Dante had awa- 
kened in his breast. 
\ 

Meanwhile the other, great of soul, near whom 

I yet was stationed, changed not countenance stern, 

Nor moved the neck, nor bent his ribbed side. 

" And if," continuing the first discourse, 

" They in this art," he cried, " small skill have shown ; 

That doth torment me more e'en than this bed. 

But not yet fifty times shall be relumed 

Her aspect, who reigns here queen of this realm, 

Ere thou shalt know the full weight of that art. 

So to the pleasant world mayst thou return, 

As thou shalt tell me why, in all their laws, 

Against my kin this people is so fell." 

" The slaughter and great havoc," I replied, 
" That colored Arbia's flood with crimson stain — 
To these impute, that in our hallowed dome 
Such orisons ascend." Sighing he shook 
The head, then thus resumed : "In that affray 
I stood not singly, nor, without just cause, 
Assuredly, should with the rest have stirred; 
But singly there I stood, when, by consent 
Of all, Florence had to the ground been razed, 
The one who openly forbade the deed." 

Then conscious of my fault, and by remorse 
Smitten, I added thus : "Nov/ shalt thou say 
To him there fallen, that his offspring still 
Is to the living joined; and bid him know 



Tke Violent. 



l8l 



That if from answer, silent, I abstained, 
'Twas that my thought was occupied, intent 
Upon that error, which thy help hath solved." 

After naming several personages lying in the sepul- 
chres, among them the Emperor Frederick II. and 
Cardinal Ubaldini, Farinata withdraws from sight.* 

The poets now reach a ledge of craggy rocks over- 
hanging a profound abyss, which sends forth noxious 
exhalations. Here, as they wait to accustom them- 
selves to the dire breath, Virgil unfolds the entire penal 
code of the Commedia, the fundamental principle of 
which is, that the penalty inflicted is proportioned, not 
to the crime itself, but to its effect on society ; a princi- 
ple which distinguishes the Roman jurisprudence from 
that of the German nations. Accordingly, in the In- 
ferno, violence, fraud, and treachery are punished more 
severely than anger, rage, and fury, and these again 
more severely than avarice and prodigality, lust and 
gluttony. Here also is explained the symbolic relation 
of the punishment to the crime. f 

They now descend the rocky precipice to the seventh 
circle, where the violent are punished. But as violence 
may be committed against our neighbors, ourselves, or 
God, the circle is divided into three gulfs, corresponding 
to those three kinds of sin. It is guarded by the Mino- 
taur, who feeds on human flesh ; and who, seeing the 
poets approach, gnaws itself, as if distracted with rage. 
He is commanded to give way, and — 

* Inferno, x. j- Ibid., xi. 

17 



182 The Centaurs. 

Like to a bull, that with impetuous spring 
Darts, at the moment when the fatal blow 
Hath struck him, but, unable to proceed, 
Plunges on either side ; so saw I plunge 
The Minotaur ; whereat the sage exclaimed : 
" Run to the passage ! While he storms, 'tis well 
That thou descend." Thus down our road we took 
Through those dilapidated crags, that oft 
Moved underneath my feet, to weight like theirs 
Unused. 

Virgil explains that the precipice was formed by the 
earthquake which preceded the descent of the Saviour 
into hell. They now reach the river of blood, in 
which those are punished who by violence have injured 
others. On the bank of the river they see thousands 
of centaurs, symbols of savage life uncontrolled by law, 
and directed only by brutal instinct and force. They 
are armed with keen arrows, and aim their shafts at 
whatsoever spirits emerge from out the blood farther 
than his guilt allows. On seeing Dante, Chiron, one 
of the centaurs, takes an arrow — 

And with the notch pushed back his shaggy beard 
To the cheek-bone, then, his great mouth to view 
Exposing, to his fellows thus exclaimed : 
" Are ye aware, that he who comes behind 
Moves what he touches ? The feet of the dead 
Are not so wont." 

Virgil informs the demon that Dante visits those re- 
gions by the will of a higher power, and asks for one of 



The Suicides. 



183 



his band on whose back they may ford the river. 
Thus they pass 

The border of the crimson-seething flood, 

Whence from those steeped within, loud shrieks arose. 

As they cross, their guide points out to them those 
tyrants who were given to blood and rapine : Attila, 
Alexander, Dionysius of Syracuse, Ezzolino, Obizzo, 
and others.* 

After passing the river, they enter a forest shadowed 
by dusky foliage, whose gnarled branches bear thorns 
filled with venom instead of fruit. Here the brute har- 
pies make their nest : — 

Broad are their pennons, of the human form 
Their neck and countenance, armed with talons keen 
The feet, and the huge belly fledged with wings. 
These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood. 

On all sides they hear sad plainings, but cannot see 
from whom they come. Following the advice of Vir- 
gil, Dante breaks off a twig from one of those evil trees : 

And straight the trunk exclaimed, " Why pluck'st thou me ?" 

Then, as the dark blood trickled down its side, 

These words it added : {e Wherefore tear'st me thus ? 

Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast ? 

Men once were we, that now are rooted here. 

Thy hand might well have spared us, had we been 

The souls of serpents." As a brand yet green, 

That, burning at one end, from the other sends 

A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind 

* Inferno, xii. 



184 Pietro delle Vigne. 

1 

That forces out its way, so burst at once 

Forth from the broken splinter words and blood. 

I, letting fall the bough, remained as one 
Assailed by terror ; and the sage replied : 
"If he, O injured spirit ! could have believed 
What he hath seen but in my verse described, 
He never against thee had stretched his hand. 
But I, because the thing surpassed belief, 
Prompted him to this deed, which even now 
Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast ; 
That, for this wrong, to do thee some amends 
In the upper world (for thither to return 
Is granted him) thy fame he may revive." 
<s That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied, 
" Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech 
Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge 
A little longer, in the snare detained, 
Count it not grievous." 

Here the spirit relates that he is Pietro delle Vigne, 
former chancellor to the Emperor Frederick II., over 
whom he had gained unbounded influence. The cour- 
tiers, envious of the partiality with which he was treat- 
ed, induced the emperor to believe that he had entered 
into a plot for poisoning him. In consequence of this 
supposed crime, he was condemned to lose his eyes, 
and to be imprisoned for life. Driven to despair by 
this cruel injustice, he dashed his head against a column 
to which he was chained, and died in the year 1245. 
Pietro thus relates his story : — 

" I it was, who held 
Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turned the wards, 



Pietro delle Vigne. 



185 



Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet, 
That besides me, into his inmost breast 
Scarce any other could admittance find. 
The faith I bore to my high charge was such, 
It cost me the life-blood that warmed my veins ; 
The harlot who ne'er turned her gloating eyes 
From Caesar's household, common vice and pest 
Of courts, 'gainst me inflamed the minds of all ; 
And to Augustus they so spread the flame, 
That my glad honors changed to bitter woes. 
My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought 
Refuge in death from scorn, and I became, 
Just as I was, unjust toward myself. 
By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear, 
That never faith I broke to my liege lord, 
Who merited such honor ; and of you, 
If any to the world indeed return, 
Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies 
Yet prostrate under envy's cruel blow." 

Pietro now explains how the soul is confined in those 

gnarled joints : — 

"When departs 
The fierce soul from the body, by itself 
Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf 
By Minos doomed, into the wood it falls, 
No place assigned, but wheresoever chance 
Hurls it ; there sprouting, as a grain of spelt, 
It rises to a sapling, growing thence 
A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves 
Then feeding, cause both pain, and for the pain 
A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come 
For our own spoils, yet not so that with them 
We may again be clad ; for what a man 
17* 



]86 

Takes from himself it is not jus: he have. 

Here we perforce snail drag them • and throughout 

The dismal glade : :"a.e. ihaii ire iaar.g. 
Eaeh on the wild thorn :: a; an:: " a :n::/ , 

The poet is still attentively listening to the voice, 
when he hears a noise as of the rushing of wild beasts 
hunted through a forest : — 

And lo ! there came 
Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight, 
That they before them broke each fan o* th* wood. 
" Haste now/' the foremost cried, "now haste thee, death !" 
The other, as seemed, impatient of delay, 
Exclaiming, iC Lano ! not so bent for speed 
Thy sinews. ::: a i : n :' Torpo's held." 
And then, for that perchance no longer breath 
Sufficed him, of himself and of a bush 
One group he made. Behind them was the wood 
Full of black female masdfrs, gaunt and fleet, 
As greyha an ds that have newly slipped the leash. 
On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs, 
And having rent him piecemeal, bore away 
The tortured limbs. 

The poet learns from the shades that thev are spirits 
who have, from various causes, committed suicide. * 

From the forest thev now pass to a plain of arid 
sand, where those who have been guiltv of violence 
against God and against Xature are tormented : — 

Vengeance cf Heaven! Oh, hew shcul: be reared 

By all, who read what here mine eyes beheld ! 

* Inferno, xiii. 



Capaneus. 187 

Of naked spirits many a flock I saw, 
All weeping piteously, to different laws 
Subjected ; for on the earth some lay supine, 
Some crouching close were seated, others paced 
Incessantly around ; the latter tribe 
More numerous, those fewer who beneath 
The torment lay, but louder in their grief. 

O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down 
Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow 
On Alpine summit, when the wind is hushed. 
As, in the torrid Indian clime, the son 
Of Ammon saw, upon his warrior band 
Descending, solid flames, that to the ground 
Came down ; whence he bethought him with his troop 
To trample on the soil; for easier thus 
The vapor was extinguished, while alone : 
So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith 
The marl glowed underneath, as under stove 
The viands, doubly to augment the pain. 
Unceasing was the play of wretched hands, 
Now this, now that way glancing, to shake oft 
The heat, still falling fresh. 

The attention of the poet is attracted to a shade, 
which scornfully defies the fiery tempest. It is Ca- 
paneus, one of the seven kings who besieged Thebes : 

Straight he himself, who was aware I asked 
My guide of him, exclaimed : " Such as I was 
When living, dead such now I am. If Jove 
Weary his workman out, from whom in ire 
He snatched the lightnings, that at my last day 
Transfixed me ; if the rest he weary out, 
At their black smithy laboring by turns, 



i 



188 =tke Rivers of Hell. 

In Mongibello, while he cries aloud, 
'Help, help, good Mulciber V as erst he cried 
In the Phlegrsean warfare ; and the bolts 
Launch he, fall aimed at me, with all his might ; 
He never should enjoy a sweet revenge." 

Then thus my guide, in accent higher raised 
Than I before had heard him : " Capaneus ! 
Thou art more punished, in that this thy pride 
Lives yet unquenched ; no torment, save thy rage, 
Were to thy fiery pain proportioned full." 

They pass on in silence until they reach a brook of 
blood, which flows from the forest and runs through 
the sandy plain. As the poet walks along its stone- 
built margin, Virgil thus explains to him how the rivers 
of hell are formed from the tears of humanity : — 

({ In midst of ocean," forthwith he began, 
" A desolate country lies, which Crete is named : 
Under whose monarch, in old times, the world 
Lived pure and chaste. A mountain rises there, 
Called Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams, 
Deserted now like a forbidden thing. 
It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn's spouse, 
Chose for the secret cradle cf her son ; 
And better to conceal him, drowned in shouts 
His infant cries. Within the mount, upright 
An ancient form there stands, and huge, that turns 
His shoulders towards Damiata ; and at Rome, 
As in his mirror, looks. Of finest gold 
His head is shaped, pure silver are the breast 
And arms, thence to the middle is of brass, 
And downward all beneath well- tempered steel, 
Save the right foot of potter's clay, on which 



Brunetto Latini. 189 

Than on the other more erect he stands. 
Each part, except the gold, is rent throughout ; 
And from the fissure tears distil, which joined 
Penetrate to that cave. They in their course, 
Thus far precipitated down the rock, 
Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon ; 
Then by this straitened channel passing hence 
Beneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all, 
From there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself 
Shalt see it) I here give thee no account. "* 

Passing on, they meet a troop of spirits : — 

They each one eyed us, as at eventide 
One eyes another under a new moon ; 
And toward us sharpened their sight, as keen 
As an old tailor at his needle's eye. 

Thus narrowly explored by all the tribe, 
I was agnized of one, who by the skirt 
Caught me, and cried, " What wonder have we here ?" 

And I, when he to me outstretched his arm, 
Intently fixed my ken on his parched looks, 
That, although smirched with fire, they hindered not 
But I remembered him ; and towards his face 
My hand inclining, answered, " Ser Brunetto ! 
And are ye here ?" He thus to me : " My son ! 
Oh, let it not displease thee, if Brunetto 
Latini but a little space with thee 
Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed." 

I thus to him replied : " Much as I can, 
I thereto pray thee ; and if thou be willing 
That I here seat me with thee, I consent ; 
His leave, with whom I journey, first obtained. " 

* Inferno, xiv. 



190 Brunetto Latim. 

" O son !" said he, "whoever of this throng 
One instant stops, lies then a hundred years, 

Xo fin :: ventilate Arm v. hen ihe hre 

Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close 

Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin 

My zzzzzz, v;'r.z m m:urru::g rheir ennless cAmm' 

I dared not from the path descend to tread 
On equal ground with him, but held my head 

Ben: clmm, is :ne vA: v.- -11: 5 in revere::: guise. 

Having been informed ::' A.e :;::m:m::m:m mAAr 1 ed 
to the present journey — 

f€ If thou," he answered, "follow but thy star, 
Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven ; 

"L mess in rurer mm ::.'' muume::: erred. 
Ann if my :i:e s: errly :.:i :::: mmced, 
Seeing the heavens thus bounteous to thee, I 
Had gladly given thee comfort in thy work. 

Bn: Am u::gri:efA and :::Amm: rice. 

Who in :1£ rimes cime ii'.vn Am Fesrle, 

A;-', and 5 All s :::.::'.: A rheir ::mb n: runriin-fhur, 

Will Ar my m A a:: if sbmv :hee ennn 

X:r vorAer: Ar i:u:::r A-simred cribs 

OA rime remr:s men: ::: me vn:.: ::r rm: 

Czvzzzs,:; ermAus. rrrud. L:A: ::• i: well: 

T A: e nee d : h : u cleanse : h e e : f : ineir ways. For thee, 

Thy Armne him m:h h::::r in reserve, 

Tni: mm by eime: nr:y sbil: re craved 

Wirli hunger keen: but be the fresh herb fer 

Frm: me mam ::::h. Tne herd A FesAe 

May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant, 

If any such ye: snring ::: mei: ram: ben, 

In which the holy seed revives, tracsmitted 



Brunetto Latini. 191 

From those true Romans, who still there remained, 
When it was made the nest of so much ill." 

t€ Were all my wish fulfilled," I straight replied, 
" Thou from the confines of man's nature yet 
Hadst not been driven forth ; for in my mind 
Is fixed, and now strikes full upon my heart. 
The dear, benign, paternal image, such 
As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me 
The way for man to win eternity : 
And how I prized the lesson, it behooves, 
That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak. 
What of my fate thou telPst, that write I down ; 
And, with another text to comment on, 
For her I keep it, the celestial dame, 
Who will know all, if I to her arrive. 
This only would I have thee clearly note : 
That, so my conscience have no plea against me, 
Do Fortune as she list, I stand prepared. 
Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear. 
Speed Fortune then her wheel, as likes her best ; 
The clown his mattock ; all things have their course." 
Thereat my sapient guide upon his right 
Turned himself back, then looked at me, and spake : 
"He listens to good purpose who takes note." 

Thus discoursing, they proceed on their way, till 
Brunetto, seeing a company of spirits approach whom 
he is forbidden to meet, commends to Dante his Tresor^ 
in which, he says, he still survives ; turns back, and 
runs at full speed to his place.* 

Journeying on, they meet the shades of three Flor- 

* Inferno, xv. 



192 Geryon. 

entines, who, recognizing Dante as one of their coun- 
trymen, inquire concerning the condition of their 
native city. Whereupon : — 

" An upstart multitude and sudden gains, 
Pride and excess, O Florence ! have in thee 
Engendered, so that now in tears thou mourn'st ! 5> 

Thus cried I, with my face upraised, and they 
All three, who for an. answer took my words, 
Looked at each other, as men look when truth 
Comes to their ear. " If at so little cost," 
They all at once rejoined, " thou satisfy 
Others who question thee, O happy thou ! 
Gifted with words so apt to speak thy thought. 
Wherefore, if thou escape this darksome clime, 
Returning to behold the radiant stars, 
When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past, 
See that of us thou speak among mankind." 

This said, they broke the circle, and so swift 
Fled, that as pinions seemed their nimble feet. 

The poets reach the termination of the seventh 
circle, which is separated from that below by an im- 
mense abyss. Dante here unloosing the cord, the 
emblem of fortitude, with which his vest was girdled, 
gives it to Virgil, who casts it down into the chasm. 
Presently the hideous form of Geryon, the symbol of 
fraud, comes swimming up through the gross and 
murky air.* 

tc Lo ! the fell monster with the deadly sting, 
Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls 

* Inferno, xvi. 



The Usurers. 193 

And firm embattled spears, and with his filth 
Taints all the world." Thus me my guide addressed, 
And beckoned him, that he should come to shore, 
Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge. 

Forthwith that image vile of Fraud appeared, 
His head and upper part exposed on land, 
But laid not on the shore his bestial train. 
His face the semblance of a just man's wore, 
So kind and gracious was its outward cheer ; 
The rest was serpent all : two shaggy claws 
Reached to the arm-pits ; and the back and breast, 
And either side, were painted o'er with nodes 
And orbits. Colors variegated more, 
Nor Turks nor Tartars e'er on cloth of state 
With interchangeable embroidery wove, 
Nor spread Arachne o'er her curious loom. 
As oft-times a light skiff, moored to the shore, 
Stands part in water, part upon the land ; 
Or, as where dwells the greedy German boor, 
The beaver settles, watching for his prey ; 
So on the rim, that fenced the sand with rock, 
Sat perched the fiend of evil. In the void 
Glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork, 
With sting like scorpion's armed. Then thus my guide : 
" Now need our way must turn few steps apart, 
Far as to that ill beast, who couches there." 



While Virgil parleys with the monster, Dante 
approaches a tribe of the spirits of usurers, each 
having suspended from his neck a purse bearing the 
coat of arms of the family to which he belonged. 
They are seated on the ground. 
18 



1Q/|. tfhey descend the Abyss. 

At the eyes forth gushed their pangs. 
Against the vapors and the torrid soil 
Alternately their shifting hands they plied. 
Thus use the dogs in summer still to ply 
Their jaws and feet by turns, when bitten sore 
By gnats, or flies, or gadflies swarming round. 

After a brief conversation, the poet returns to Virgil, 
whom he finds already seated on the back of the fierce 
Geryon, and who encourages him to mount before 
him. 

As one, who hath an ague fit so near, 
His nails already are turned blue, and he 
Quivers all o'er, if he but eye the shade; 
Such was my cheer at hearing of his words. 
But shame soon interposed her threat, who makes 
The servant bold in presence of his lord. 

I settled me upon those shoulders huge, 
And would have said, but that the words to aid 
My purpose came not, "Look thou clasp me firm." 

But he whose succor then not first I proved, 
Soon as I mounted, in his arms aloft, 
Embracing, held me up ; and thus he spake : 
" Geryon ! now move thee : be thy wheeling gyres 
Of ample circuit, easy thy descent. 
Think on the unusual burden thou sustain'st." 

As a small vessel, backening out from land, 
Her station quits ; so thence the monster loosed, 
And, when he felt himself at large, turned round 
There, where the breast had been, his forked tail. 
Thus, like an eel, outstretched at length he steered, 
Gathering the air up with retractile claws. 



T?hey descend the Abyss. 195 

Not greater was the dread, when Phaeton 
The reins let drop at random, whence high heaven, 
Whereof signs yet appear, was wrapped in flames ; 
Nor when ill-fated Icarus perceived, 
By liquefaction of the scalded wax, 
The trusted pennons loosened from his loins, 
His sire exclaiming loud, §€ 111 way thou keep'st," 
Than was my dread, when round me on each part 
The air I viewed, and other object none 
Save the fell beast. He, slowly sailing, wheels 
His downward motion, unobserved of me, 
But that the wind, arising to my face, 
Breathes on me from below. Now on our right 
I heard the cataract beneath us leap 
With hideous crash; whence bending down to explore, 
New terror I conceived at the steep plunge ; 
For flames I saw, and wailings smote mine ear : 
So that, all trembling, close I crouched my limbs, 
And then distinguished, unperceived before, 
By the dread torments that on every side 
Drew nearer, how our downward course we wound. 

As .falcon that hath long been on the wing, 
But lure nor birth has seen, while in despair 
The falconer cries : <c Ah me ! thou swoop'st to earth," 
Wearied descends whence nimbly he arose 
In many an airy wheel, and lighting sits 
At distance from his lord in angry mood ; 
So Geryon lighting places us on foot 
Low down at base of the deep-furrowed rock, 
And, of his burden there discharged, forthwith 
Sprang forward, like an arrow from the string.* 



Inferno, xvii, 



196 The Flatterers. 

They now reach the eighth circle, called Malebolge, 
or evil gulfs ; formed by ten consecutive walls or 
bastions of dark ferruginous rock, each gulf becoming 
smaller and deeper as it approaches the central one, 
the deepest of all ; at the bottom of which Lucifer is 
imprisoned, and to which each is connected by a^ bridge 
of rock, which unites them like the spokes of a wheel. 
The first chasm is peopled by the seducers of women, 
who are pursued and unmercifully scourged by horned 
demons. 

Ah ! how they made them bound at the first stripe, 
None for the second waited, nor the third. 

After recognizing some among the shades, the poets 
pass to the next arch, from where, in the foss below, 
they see the ghosts of flatterers immersed in horrid 
filth. 

Hence, in the second chasm we heard the ghosts, 
Who gibber in low melancholy sounds, 
With wide-stretched nostrils snort, and on themselves 
Smite with their palms. Upon the banks a scurf, 
From the foul steam condensed, encrusting hung, 
That held sharp combat with the sight and smell. 

So hollow is the depth, that from no part, 
Save on the summit of the rocky span, 
Could I distinguish aught. Thus far we came ; 
And thence I saw, within the foss below, 
A crowd immersed in ordure, that appeared 
Draff of the human body. There beneath, 
Searching with eye inquisitive, I marked 



The Simoniacs. 197 

One with his head so grimed, 'twere hard to deem 
If he were clerk or layman. Loud he cried : 
" Why greedily thus bendest more on me, 
Than on these other filthy ones, thy ken ?" 

** Because, if true my memory," I replied, 
" I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks ; 
And thou Alessio art, of Lucca sprung. 
Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more." 

Then beating on his brain, these words he spake : 
cc Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, 
Wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." 

Here Virgil points out Thais, the courtesan in the 
Eunuch of Terence, the type of bad women, con- 
demned to the place symbolic of their degrada- 
tion.* 

Canto XIX. opens with the following invective 
against the Simoniacs, who suffer in the third gulf: — 

Woe to thee, Simon Magus ! woe to you, 
His wretched followers ! who the things of God, 
Which should be wedded unto goodness, them, 
Rapacious as ye are, do prostitute 
For gold and silver in adultery. 
Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yours 
Is the third chasm. 

Observing the torments of these sinners, the poet 
exclaims : — 

Wisdom supreme ! how wonderful the art 
Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth, 

* Inferno, xviii. 
18* 



198 Nicholas HI. 

And in the evil world, how just a meed 

Allotting by thy virtue unto all. 

I saw the livid stone, throughout the sides 

And in its bottom full of apertures, 

All equal in their width, and circular each. 
****** 

.... From out the mouth 

Of every one emerged a sinner's feet, 

And of the legs high upward as the calf. 

The rest beneath was hid. On either foot 

The soles were burning; whence the flexile joints 

Glanced with such violent motion, as had snapped 

Asunder cords or twisted withs. As flame, 

Feeding on unctuous matter, glides along 

The surface, scarcely touching where it moves ; 

So here, from heel to point, glided the flames. 

" Master ! say who is he than all the rest 
Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom 
A ruddier flame doth prey ?" I thus inquired. 

(S If thou be willing," he replied, " that I 
Carry thee down, where least the slope bank falls, 
He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs." 

I then : " As pleases thee, to me is best. 
Thou art my lord ; and know'st that ne'er I quit 
Thy will. What silence hides that knowest thou." 

Virgil then carries him down through a narrow 
strait to the orifice where that spirit suffers. 

c< Whoe'er thou art, 
Sad spirit ! thus reversed, and as a stake 
Driven in the soil," I in these words began ; 
" If thou be able, utter forth thy voice." 

He shouted : (C Ha ! already standest there ? 
Already standest there, O Boniface ! 



Nicholas III. 199 

By many a year the writing played me false. 
So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth, 
For which thou fearedst not in guile to take 
The lovely lady, and then mangle her ?" 

I felt as those who, piercing not the drift 
Of answer made them, stand as if exposed 
In mockery, nor know what to reply ; 
When Virgil thus admonished : €S Tell him quick, 
' I am not he, not he whom thou believest.' " 

And I, as was enjoined me, straight replied. 

That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet, 
And, sighing, next in woful accent spake : 
" What then of me requirest ? If to know 
So much imports thee, who I am, that thou 
Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn 
That in the mighty mantle I was robed, 
And of a she-bear was indeed the son, 
So eager to advance my whelps, that there 
My having in my purse above 'I stowed, 
And here myself. Under my head are dragged 
The rest, my predecessors in the guilt 
Of simony. Stretched at their length, they lie 
Along an opening in the rock. Midst them 
I also low shall fall, soon as he comes, 
For whom I took thee, when so hastily 
I questioned. But already longer time 
Hath passed, since my soles kindled, and I thus 
Upturned have stood, than is his doom to stand 
Planted with fiery feet, for after him, 
One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive, 
From forth the west, a shepherd without law." 

Dante, thus finding himself tete-a-tete with a pope, 
takes occasion to address him in this satirical strain : — 



200 Nicholas III. 

" Tell me now, 
What treasures from St. Peter at the first 
Our Lord demanded, when He put the keys 
Into his charge ? Surely He asked no more 
But ' Follow me !' Nor Peter, nor the rest, 
Or gold or silver of Matthias took, 
When lots were cast upon the forfeit place 
Of the condemned soul. Abide thou then ; 
Thy punishment of right is merited : 
And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin, 
Which against Charles thy hardihood inspired. 
If reverence of the keys restrained me not, 
Which thou in happier times didst hold, I yet 
Severer speech might use. Your avarice 
O'ercasts the world with mourning, under foot 
Treading the good, and raising bad men up. 
Of shepherds like to you, the Evangelist 
Was ware, when her, who sits upon the waves, 
With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld ; 
She who with seven heads towered at her birth, 
And from ten horns her proof of glory drew, 
Long as her spouse in virtue took delight. 
Of gold and silver ye have made you god, 
Differing wherein from the idolater, 
But he worships one, a hundred ye ? 
Ah, Constantine ! to how much ill gave birth 
Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower, 
Which the first wealthy Father gained from thee." 

Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath 
Or conscience smote him, violent upspraug 
Spinning on either sole. I do believe 
My teacher well was pleased, with so composed 
A lip he listened ever to the sound 



Diviners and Astrologers. 201 

Of the true words I uttered. In both arms 
He caught, and, to his bosom lifting me, 
Upward retraced the way of his descent.* 

Virgil now bears his cherished burden to the steep 
rock overhanging the fourth chasm, where those are 
punished who, while living, presumed to predict future 
events. 

Earnest I looked 
Into the depth that opened to my view, 
Moistened with tears of anguish, and beheld 
A tribe, that came along the hollow vale, 
In silence weeping : such their step as walk 
Choirs, chanting solemn litanies, on earth. 

As on them more direct mine eye descends, 
Each wondrously seemed to be reversed 
At the neck-bone, so that the countenance 
Was from the reins averted ; and because 
None might before him look, they were compelled 
To advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps 
Hath been by force of palsy clean transposed, 
But I ne'er saw it nor believe it so. 

Now, reader ! think within thyself, so God 
Fruit of thy reading give thee ! how I long 
Could keep my visage dry, when I beheld 
Near me our form distorted in such guise, 
That on the hinder parts fallen from the face 
The tears down-streaming rolled. 

His guide reproaches him for his weakness, and 
points out to him the diviners, witches, and astrologers 

* Inferno, xix. 



202 The Public Peculators. 

of ancient times, among them Manto, the daughter of 
Tiresias of Thebes, bv whom, according to tradition, 
Mantua was founded. In relating this legend, Dante 
describes the country surrounding the city of Mantua, 
and shows remarkable knowledge of physical geogra- 
phy. Among the astrologers and alchemists, the poet 
places Michael Scot, whose fame as a wizard is im- 
mortalized in Scott's " Lay of the Last Minstrel."* 

From the next bridge the poets look into the fifth 
gulf, where public peculators are plunged in a lake of 
boiling pitch. 

In the Venetians' arsenal as boils 
Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear 
Their unsound vessels ; for the inclement time 
Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while 
His bark eaae :n:ther iters 

The ribs of his that hath made many a voyage, 
One hammers at the prow, one at the poop, 
This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls, 
The mizzen cr.e repairs, and m a: "-sail rent; 
So, :::: by force : f r: r e but a:: divine, 
Bene a here a glutinous thick mass, that round 
Limed all the shore beneath. I that beheld, 
But there::: naught distinguished, save the bubbles 
Raised by the boiling, and one mighty swell 
Heave, and by turns subsiding fall. While there 
I fixed my ken below, " Mark ! mark !" my guide 
Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place 
Wherein I stood 

* Inferno, xx. 



1 



An Alderman of Lucca. 203 

Behind me I discerned a devil black, 
That running up advanced along the rock. 
Ah ! what fierce cruelty his look bespake. 
In act how bitter did he seem, with wings 
Buoyant outstretched, and feet of nimblest tread. 
His shoulder, proudly eminent and sharp, 
Was with a sinner charged ; by either haunch 
He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast. 

The sinner proves to be an alderman of Lucca, and 
the fiend dashes him down into the pitch, in haste to 
return to that city for others, saying : — 

That land hath store of such. All men are there, 
Except Bonturo, barterers : of " no" 
For lucre there an "ay" is quickly made. 

Him dashing down o'er the rough rock, he turned, 
Nor ever after thief a mastiff loosed 
Sped with like eager haste. That other sank, 
And forthwith writhing to the surface rose. 
But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge, 
Cried : te Here the hallowed visage saves not : here 
Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave, 
Wherefore, if thou desire we rend thee not, 
Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch." This said, 
They grappled him with more than hundred hooks, 
And shouted, " Covered thou must sport thee here : 
So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch." 
E'en thus the cook bestirs 'him, with his grooms, 
To thrust the flesh into the caldron down 
With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top. 

Here Virgil bids Dante screen himself behind a 



204 Mai ox oda and his Companions, 

craggy rock, while he goes forward to speak to the 
demons. 

With storm and fury,, as when dogs rush forth 
Upon the poor man's back, who suddenly 
From whence he standeth makes his suit ; so rushed 
Those from beneath the arch, and against him 
Their weapons all they pointed. He, aloud : 
" Be none of you outrageous : ere your tine 
Dare seize me, come forth from among you one, 
Who having heard my words, decide he then 
If he shall tear these limbs." They shouted loud, 
" Go, Malacoda !" Whereat one advanced, 
The others standing firm, and as he came, 
" What may this turn avail him ?'' he exclaimed. 

"Believest thou, Malacoda i I had come 
Thus far from all your skirmishing secure," 
My teacher answered, " without will divine 
And destiny propitious ? Pass we then ; 
For so Heaven's pleasure is, that I sAould lead 
Another through this savage wilderness." 

Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop 
The instrument of torture at his feet, 
And to the rest exclaimed : " We have no power 
To strike him." Then to me my guide : " O thou 
Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit 
Low crouching, safely now to me return.*' 

I rose, and towards him moved with speed; the fiends 
Meantime all forward drew: me terror seized, 
Lest they should break the compact they had made. 
* * # * * * * 

I to my leader's side adhered, mine eyes 
With fixed and motionless observance bent 
On their unkindly visage. They their hooks 



c tke Lake of Boiling Pitch. 205 

Protruding, one the other thus bespake : 

t€ Wilt thou I touch him on the hip ?" To whom 

Was answered : s€ Even so ; nor miss thy aim." 

Malacoda, their chief, however, forbids them to 
molest him, and orders ten demons to guide the trav- 
ellers.* 

It hath been heretofore my chance to see 
Horsemen with martial order shifting camp, 
To onset sallying, or in muster ranged, 
Or in retreat sometimes outstretched for flight : 
Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers 
Scouring thy plains, Arezzo ! have I seen, 
And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts, 
Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells, 
Tabors, or signals made from castled heights, 
And with inventions multiform, our own, 
Or introduced from foreign land ; but ne'er 
To such a strange recorder I beheld, 
In evolution moving, horse nor foot, 
Nor ship, that tacked by sign from land or star. 

With the ten demons on our way we went ; 
Ah, fearful company ! but in the church 
With saints, with gluttons at the tavern's mess. 

Still earnest on the pitch I gazed, to mark 
All things whate'er the chasm contained, and those 
Who burned within. As dolphins that, in sign 
To mariners, heave high their arched backs, 
That thence forewarned they may advise to save 
Their threatened vessel ; so, at intervals, 
To ease the pain, his back some sinner showed, 
Then hid more nimbly than the lightning-glance. 

E'en as the frogs, that of a watery moat 

** Inferno, xxi. 
19 



206 Ciampolo. 

Stand at the brink, with the jaws only out, 
Their feet and of the trunk all else concealed, 
Thus on each part the sinners stood ; but soon 
As Barbariccia was at hand, so they 
Drew back under the wave. I saw, and yet 
My heart doth stagger, one, that waited thus, 
As it befalls that oft one frog remains, 
While the next springs away : and Graffiacan, 
Who of the fiends was nearest, grappling seized 
His clotted locks, and dragged him sprawling up, 
That he appeared to me an otter. 
* * * % * 

" O Rubicant ! 
See that this hide thou with thy talons flay l u 
Shouted together all the cursed crew. 

This peculator proves to be Ciampolo, of Navarre, 
formerly in the service of King Thibault, who died 
1233. ^* s storv ) as ne relates it to Virgil, is often 
interrupted by the demons, who, notwithstanding the 
order of their leader to leave him for a few moments, 
long to give vent to their cruelty. Virgil asks him if 
there are other Italians in the pitch, to which the sinner 
replies : — 

" If ye desire to see or hear," he thus 
Quaking with dread resumed, " or Tuscan spirits 
Or Lombard, I will cause them to appear. 
Meantime let these ill talons bate their fury, 
So that no vengeance they may fear from them, 
And I, remaining in this self-same place, 
Will, for myself but one, make seven appear, 
When my shrill whistle shall be heard : for so 
Our custom is to call each other up." 



— 



The Demons Foiled. 207 

After some parley, the demons agree to shield them- 
selves behind the bank : — 



Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear. 

They each one turned his eyes to the other shore, 
He first, who was the hardest to persuade. 
The spirit of Navarre chose well his time, 
Planted his feet on land, and at one leap 
Escaping, disappointed their resolve. 

Them quick resentment stung, but him the most, 
Who was the cause of failure : in pursuit 
He therefore sped, exclaiming, "Thou art caught!" 

But little it availed ; terror outstripped 
His following flight ; the other plunged beneath, 
And he with upward pinion raised his breast : 
E'en thus the water-fowl, when she perceives 
The falcon near, dives instant down, while 
He enraged and spent retires. That mockery 
In Calcabrina fury stirred, who flew 
After him, with desire of strife inflamed : 
And, for the barterer had 'scaped, so turned 
His talons on his comrade. O'er the dike 
In grapple close they joined; but the other proved 
A goshawk able to rend well his foe, 
And in the boiling lake both fell. The heat 
Was umpire soon between them ; but in vain 
To lift themselves they strove, so fast were glued 
Their pennons. Barbariccia, as the rest, 
That chance lamenting, four in flight dispatched 
From the other coast, with all their weapons armed. 
They, to their post on each side speedily 
Descending, stretched their hooks toward the fiends, 
Who floundered, inly burning from their scars : 



2o8 *?he Hypocrites. 

And we departing left them to that broil.* 
In silence and in solitude we went, 

One first, me rther fallowing his steps, 
As minor friars journeying on their road. 

Dome become? alarmed lest the demons, ending 
themselves foiled, should pursue them. He manifests 
his fears to his guide, who suuuests means 01 avoiding 
the danger : — 

He had no: spoke vis rurpese :: :oe end. 
When I from far beheld them with spread wings 
Approach :: take us. Suddenly my guide 
Caught me, even as a mother that from sleep 
Is by the u::se aroused, ana near her sees 

And dies ne'er rausmr.. careful more :: him 
Than of herself, that but a single vest 
Chugs round her limbs. D:wn from me patting beach 
Sunine ne cas: him :: :ha: rendent rook, 
Which closes on one part the other chasm. 
Never ran va:er with such harrying pace 
Auovt. me :uoe :: rum a land-mill's wheel, 
When nearest i: arorcache: :: me strokes, 
As then along that edge my master ran, 
Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, 
Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet 
Reached to the lowest of the bed beneath, 
When over us the steep they reached : but fear 
In him was none ; for that high Providence 
Which olaoed them ministers :f me dfth f:ss, 
Power of departing theme took from them ah. 

Here they witness the punishments of the hypo- 
crites — 

* I-:;rr.:. x:00 



A Steep Ascent 



209 



Who paced with tardy steps around, and wept, 
Faint in appearance and overcome with toil. 
Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down 
Before their eyes, in fashion like to those 
Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside 
Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to View, 
But leaden all within, and of such weight, 
That Frederick's compared to these were straw. 
Oh, everlasting wearisome attire ! 

We yet once more with them together turned 
To leftward, on their dismal moan intent. 
But by the weight oppressed, so slowly came 
The fainting people, that our company 
Was changed at every movement of the step.* 

From the bottom of this chasm to the opening of 
the next the way is steep and craggy. It is impossible 
for Dante to ascend ; Virgil opens wide his arms and 
takes him up : — 

As one who, while he works. 
Computes his labor's issue, that he seems 
Still to foresee the effect : so lifting me 
Up to the summit of one peak, he fixed 
His eye upon another. " Grapple that," 
Said he, " but first make proof, if it be such 
As will sustain thee." For one capped with lead 
This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, 
And I, though onward pushed from crag to crag, 
Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast 
Were not less ample than the last, for him 
I know not, but my strength had surely failed. 



; 






* Inferno, xxiii. 



19* 



210 tfhe Robbers. 

But Malebolge all toward the mouth 
Inclining of the nethermost abyss, 
The site of every valley hence requires, 
That one side upward slope, the other fall. 

At length the point from whence the utmost stone 
Juts down, we reached; soon as to that arrived, 
So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, 
I could no further, but did seat me there. 

Virgil, however, does not allow him to rest. 

" Now needs thy best of man." So spake my guide ; 
' e For not on downy plumes, nor under shade 
Of canopy reposing, fame is won ; 
Without which whosoe'er consumes his days, 
Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, 
As smoke in air, or foam upon the wave. 
Thou therefore rise : vanquish thy weariness 
By the mind's effort, in each struggle formed 
To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight 
Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. 
A longer ladder yet remains to scale ; 
From these to have escaped sufficeth not. 
If well thou note me, profit by my words." 

Thus they mount up the steep and rugged path, and 
with much difficulty reach the next bridge, where the 
seventh chasm opens to their view, and they see num- 
bers of loathsome and terrible serpents, hideous and 
strange of shape, by which robbers are punished. 

Amid this dread exuberance of woe 
Ran naked spirits winged with horrid fear, 



Vanni Fucci. 211 

Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, 

Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. 

With serpents were their hands behind them bound, 

Which through their reins infixed the tail and head, 

Twisted in folds before. And lo ! on one 

Near to our side, darted an adder up, 

And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, 

Transpierced him. Far more quickly than e'er pen 

Wrote O or I, he kindled, burned, and changed 

To ashes all, poured out upon the earth. 

When there dissolved he lay, the dust again 

Uprolled spontaneous, and the self-same form 

Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, 

The Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years 

Have well-nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith 

Renascent : blade nor herb throughout his life 

He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone 

And odorous amomum : swaths of nard 

And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, 

He knows not how, by force demoniac dragged 

To earth, or through obstruction fettering up 

In chains invisible the powers of man, 

Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, 

Bewildered with the monstrous agony 

He hath endured, and wildly staring sight, 

So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. 

Questioned as to who he was, the shade replies : — 

" Vanni Fucci am I called, 
Not long since rained down from Tuscany 
To this dire gullet. Me the bestial life 
And not the human pleased, mule that I was, 
Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." 



212 The Centaur Car us. 

He relates that he is condemned to this place for 
having robbed a church, and falsely charged another 
man with the crime, for which the latter suffered 
death.* 

When he had spoke, the sinner raised his hands 
Pointed in mockery, and cried : " Take them, God ! 
I level them at thee." From that day forth 
The serpents were my friends ; for round his neck 
One of them roiling twisted, as it said, 
" Be silent, tongue !*' Another, to his arms 
Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself 
So close, it took from them the power to move. 

Pistoia ! ah, Pistoia ! why dost doubt 
To turn thee into ashes, cumbering earth 
No longer, since in evil act so far 
Thou hast outdone thy seed ? I did not mark, 
Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss, 
Spirit, that swelled so proudly 'gainst his God; 
Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, 
Nor uttered more ; and after him there came 
A centaur full of fury, shouting, " Where, 
Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh 
Swarm not the serpent tribe as on his haunch 
They swarmed, to where the human face begins. 
Behind his head, upon the shoulders, lay 
With open wings a dragon, breathing lire 
On whomsoe'er he met. 

The centaur Cacus speeds away in search of the 
blasphemous sinner. Presently the spirits of three 
Florentines appear and undergo a frightful transforma- 
tion : — 

* Inferno, xxiv. 



A Frightful transformation. 213 

If, O reader ! now 
Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, 
No marvel ; for myself do scarce allow 
The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked 
Toward them, lo ! a serpent with six feet 
Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him ; 
His midmost grasped the belly, a forefoot 
Seized on each arm (while deep in either cheek 
He fleshed his fangs) ; the hinder on the thighs 
Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curled 
Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasped 
A doddered oak, as round the other's limbs 
The hideous monster intertwined his own. 
Then, as they both had been of burning wax, 
Each melted into other, mingling hues, 
That which was either now was seen no more. 
Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, 
A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, 
And the clean white expires. The other two 
Looked on, exclaiming, ee Ah ! how dost thou change, 
Agnello ! See ! Thou art nor double now, 
Nor only one." The two heads now became 
One, and two figures blended in one form 
Appeared, where both were lost. Of the four lengths 
Two arms were made : the belly and the chest, 
The thighs and legs, into such members changed 
As never eye hath seen. Of former shape 
All trace was vanished. Two, yet neither, seemed 
That image miscreate, and so passed on 
With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge 
Of the fierce dog-star that lays bare the fields, 
Shifting from brake to brake the lizard seems 
A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road ; 



214 ^ Frightful transformation. 

So toward the entrails of the other two 

Approaching seemed an adder all on fire., 

As the dark pepper-grain livid and swart. 

In that part, whence our life is nourished first, 

One he transpierced ; then down before him fell 

Stretched out. The pierced spirit looked on him, 

But spake not ; yea, stood motionless and yawned, 

As if by sleep or feverous fit assailed. 

He eyed the serpent, and the serpent him. 

One from the wound, the other from the mouth, 

Breathed a thick smoke, whose vapory columns joined. 

Lucan in mute attention now may hear, 
Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus, tell, 
Nor thine, Nasidius. Ovid now be mute 
What if in warbling fiction he record 
Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake 
Him changed, and her into a fountain clear, 
I envy not ; for never face to face 
Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, 
Wherein both shapes were ready to assume 
The other's substance. They in mutual guise 
So answered, that the serpent split his train 
Divided to a fork, and the pierced spirit 
Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs 
Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon 
Was visible : the tail, disparted, took 
The figure which the spirit lost ; its skin 
Softening, his indurated to a rind. 
The shoulders next I marked, that'entering joined 
The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet 
So lengthened, as the others dwindling shrunk. 
The feet behind them twisting up became 
That part that man conceals, which in the wretch 



A Frightful transformation. 215 

Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke 

With a new color veils, and generates 

The excrescent pile on one, peeling it off 

From the other body, lo ! upon his feet 

One upright rose, and prone the other fell. 

Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps 

Were shifted, though each feature changed beneath. 

Of him who stood erect, the mounting face 

Retreated towards the temples, and what there 

Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears 

From the smooth cheeks ; the rest, not backward dragged, 

Of its excess did shape the nose ; and swelled 

Into due size protuberant the lips. 

He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends 

His sharpened visage, and draws down the ears 

Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. 

His tongue, continuous before and apt 

For utterance, severs ; and the other's fork 

Closing unites. That done, the smoke was laid. 

The soul, transformed into the brute, glides off, 

Hissing along the vale, and after him 

The other talking sputters ; but soon turned 

His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few 

Thus to another spake : €€ Along this path 

Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now." 

So saw I fluctuate in successive change 

The unsteady ballast of the seventh hold : 

And here, if aught my pen have swerved, events 

So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes 

Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.* 

* Inferno, xxv. 






21 6 Evil Counsellors. 

Florence, exult ! for thou so mightily 
Hast striven, that o'er land and sea thy wings 
Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell. 
Among the plunderers, such the three I found 
Thy citizens ; whence shame to me thy son, 
And no proud honor to thyself redounds. 

But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, 
Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long 
Shalt feel what Prato (not to say the rest) 
Would fain might come upon thee ; and that chance 
Were in good time, if it befell thee now. 
Would so it were, since it must needs befall ! 
For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. 

The poets now retrace their steps up the projecting 
rock until they reach the bridge that stretches over the 
eighth gulf, and from thence they behold numberless 
flames, wherein evil counsellors are consumed. 

As in that season, when the sun least veils 
His face that lightens all, w T hat time the fly 
Gives w r ay to the shrill gnat, the peasant then, 
Upon some clifF reclined, beneath him sees 
Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the "vale, 
Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labor lies ; 
With flames so numberless throughout its space 
Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth 
Was to my view exposed. As he, whose wrongs 
The bears avenged, at its departure saw 
Elijah's chariot, when the steeds erect 
Raised their steep flight for heaven ; his eyes, meanwhile, 
Straining pursued them, till the flame alone, 
Upsoaring like a misty speck, he kenned : 



Ulysses. 217 

E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame, 
A sinner so enfolded close in each, 
That none exhibits token of the theft. 



Among other flames, they see one parted at the sum- 
mit, where, swathed in confining fire, are the spirits of 
Ulysses and Diomede, guilty of the fraudulent invention 
of the horse of Troy, the carrying away of the Pal- 
ladium, and the death of Deidamia. Ulysses, narrating 
the history of his wanderings through the sea, intimates 
the existence of a western world, probably suggested by 
traditions handed down from the early discoveries of 
the Northmen. 



Ox the old flame forthwith the greater horn 
Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire 
That labors with the wind, then to and fro 
Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, 
Threw out its voice, and spake : "When I escaped 
From Circe, who beyond a circling year 
Had held me near Caieta by her charms, 
Ere thus ^Eneas yet had named the shore ; 
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence 
Of my old father, nor return of love, 
That should have crowned Penelope with joy, 
Could overcome in me the zeal I had 
To explore the world, and search the ways of life, 
Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sailed 
Into the deep illimitable main, 
With but one bark, and the small faithful band 
That yet cleaved to me. As Iberia far, 
Far as Marocco, either shore I saw, 
20 



2 1 8 Ulysses. 

And the Sardinian and each isle beside 
Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age 
Were I and my companions, when we came 
To the strait pass, where Hercules ordained 
The boundaries not to be o'erstepped by man. 
The walls of Seville to my right I left, 
On the other hand already Ceuta passed. 
' O brothers V I began, c who to the west 
Through perils without number now have reached; 
To this the short remaining watch, that yet 
Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof 
Of the unpeopled world, following the track 
Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang ; 
Ye were not formed to live the life of brutes, 
But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.' 
With these few words I sharpened for the voyage 
The mind of my associates, that I then 
Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn 
Our poop we turned, and for the witless flight 
Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. 
Each star of the other pole night now beheld, 
And ours so low, that from the ocean floor 
It rose not. Five times reillumed, as oft 
Vanished the light from underneath the moon, 
Since the deep way we entered, when from far 
Appeared a mountain dim, loftiest methought 
Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seized us straight ; 
But soon to mourning changed. From the new land 
A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side 
Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirled her round 
With all the waves ; the fourth time lifted up 
The poop, and sank the prow — so Fate decreed — 
And over us the booming billow closed."* 
* Inferno, xxvi. 



G 212 do da Montefeltro. 219 

Another flame now appears, from whose top issues a 
confused sound, which shapes itself into words. It is 
the spirit of Count Guido da Montefeltro, who relates 
that he had been at first a warrior whose deeds bespake 
the nature of the fox rather than of the lion, famed 
for his knowledge in all the winding ways of subtlety, 
until at last, repenting, he became a Franciscan friar. 
Meanwhile, Boniface, the chief of the new Pharisees, 
waging war against the family of the Colonna, asked 
his advice as to the best mode of accomplishing their 
overthrow, at the same time offering him absolution for 
v/hatever sin he should commit in giving it. 

" Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, 
Of silence as more perilous I deemed, 
And answered : f Father ! since thou washest me 
Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, 
Large promise with performance scant, be sure, 
Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.' " 

The pope, following this advice, promised to pardon 
the Colonna, and reinstate them in the possession of 
their property, provided they would pay him homage, 
and yield the coveted possession of the estate of 
Prenestino. They accepted the terms, but the pope 
retained all their possessions, and persecuted them even 
more bitterly than before. Thus seduced into sin by 
the holy father, Guido died ; he here relates what 
followed : — 

" When I was numbered with the dead, then came 
Saint Francis for me ; but a cherub dark 



220 tfhe Sowers of Scandal. 

He met, who cried : f. Wrong me not ; he is mine, 

And must below to join the wretched crew, 

For the deceitful counsel which he gave. 

E'er since I watched him, hovering at his hair, 

No power can the impenitent absolve; 

Nor to repent, and will, at once consist, 

By contradiction absolute forbid.' 

O misery ! how I shook myself when he 

Seized me, and cried, ' Thou haply thought'st me no 

A disputant in logic so exact !' 

To Minos down he bore me ; and the judge 

Twined eight times round his callous back the tail, 

Which biting with excess of rage, he spake : 

* This is a guilty soul, that in the fire 

'Must vanish.' Hence, perdition-doomed, I rove 

A prey to rankling sorrow, in this garb." 

When he had thus fulfilled his words, the flame 
In dolor parted, beating to and fro, 
And writhing its sharp horn.* 

The poets pass on to the ninth gulf, where sowers 
of scandal, schismatics, heretics, and fomenters of 
discord are seen, with their limbs miserably maimed or 
divided in various v/ays. 

Who, e'en in words unfettered, might at full 
Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, 
Though he repeated oft the tale ? No tongue 
So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought 
Both impotent alike. If in one band 
Collected, stood the people all, who e'er 
Poured on Apulia's happy soil their blood, 

* Inferno, xxvii. 



Mahomet 



221 



Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war, 
When of the rings the measured booty made 
A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes 
Who errs not ; with the multitude, that felt 
The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel, 
And those the rest, whose bones are gathered yet 
At Ceperano, there where treachery 
Branded the Apulian name, or where beyond 
Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms 
The old Alardo conquered; and his limbs 
One were to show transpierced, another his 
Clean lopped away : a spectacle like this 
Were but a thing of naught to the hideous sight 
Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost 
Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide 
As one I marked, torn from the chin throughout 
Down to the hinder passage : 'twixt the legs 
Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay 
Open to view, and wretched ventricle, 
That turns the englutted aliment to dross. 

While eagerly I fix on him my gaze, 
He eyed me, with his hands laid his breast bare, 
And cried, " Now mark how I do rip me : lo ! 
How is Mahomet mangled : before me 
Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face 
Cleft to the forelock ; and the others all, 
Whom here thou seest, while they lived, did sow 
Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. 
A fiend is here behind, who with his sword 
Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again 
Each of this ream, when we have compassed round 
The dismal way; for first our gashes close 
Ere we repass before him. But, say who 
20* 



222 Be r fraud de Bor?i. 

Art thou, that standest musing on the rock, 
Haply so lingering to delay the pain 
Sentenced upon thy crimes ?" — " Him death not yet," 
My guide rejoined, " hath overta'en, nor sin 
Conducts to torment ; but, that he may make 
Full trial of your state, I who am dead 
Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb, 
Conduct him. Trust my words; for they are true." 
More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard, 
Stood in the foss to mark me, through amaze 
Forgetful of their pangs. 

Among others, the poet sees the shade of Mosca of 
the family of the Uberti, who murdered Buondelmonte 
dei Buondelmonti to avenge the Amidei, whom he had 
offended by promising to marry a lady of that family, 
and then breaking his engagement and marrying another. 
This event, which happened in 1215, was the first 
cause of those divisions in Florence which afterwards 
occasioned the rise of the Guelph and Ghibelin parties. 
He sees also the ghost of Bertrand de Born, Vicomte 
de Hautefort, the Provencal troubadour, who instigated 
Prince Henry to raise the standard of rebellion against 
his father, Henry II. of England. 

I there 
Still lingered to behold the troop, and saw 
Thing, such as I may fear without more proof 
To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm, 
The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate 
Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within, 
And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt 



Bertrand de Born. 223 

I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, 
A headless trunk, that even as the rest 
Of the sad flock paced onward. By the hair 
It bore the severed member, lantern-wise, 
Pendent in hand, which looked at us, and said, 
"Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself; 
And two there were in one, and one in two. 
How that may be, He knows who ordereth so. 

When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, 
His arm aloft he reared, thrusting the head 
Full in our view, that nearer we might hear 
The words, which thus it uttered : " Now behold 
This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st 
To spy the dead : behold, if any else 
Be terrible as this. And, that on earth 
Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I 
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John* 
The counsel mischievous. Father and son 
I set at mutual war. For Absalom 
And David more did not Ahitophel, 
Spurring them on maliciously to strife. 
For parting those so closely knit, my brain 
Parted, alas ! I carry from its source, 
That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the iaw 
Of retribution fiercely works in me."f 

Dante here relates to Virgil how, in the cave which 

* The passage relating to this event, as it stands in the best Codici, 
reads re giovane, not re Giovanni, as it is written in many Codici and 
editions from which Gary translated. It was not John who was instigated 
by Bertrand to raise the standard of rebellion against Henry II., but prince 
Henry, commonly called the young. 

f Inferno, xxviii. 



224 ^ le Fdrgers. 

they had just passed, he had seen Geri del Bello, one of 
his own relatives, who had been murdered, and who 
pointed at him with menacing look, for his death 
remained still unavenged. Meanwhile, they reach the 
bridge that crosses the tenth bolgia, where forgers, 
afflicted by diverse plagues and diseases, are confined. 

More rueful was it not methinks to see 
The nation in ^Egina droop, what time 
Each living thing, e'en to the little worm, 
All fell, so full of malice was the air, 
(And afterward, as bards of yore have told, 
The ancient people were restored anew 
From seed of emmets) than was here to see 
The spirits, that languished through the murky vale, 
Up-piled on many a stack. Confused they lay, 
One o'er the belly, o'er the shoulders one 
Rolled of another ; sideling crawled a third 
Along the dismal pathway. Step by step 
We journeyed on, in silence looking round, 
And listening those diseased, who strove in vain 
To lift their forms. Then two I marked, that sat 
Propped 'gainst each other, as two brazen pans 
Set to retain the heat. From head to foot, 
A tetter barked them round. Nor saw I e'er 
Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord 
Impatient waited, or himself perchance 
Tired with long watching, as of these each one 
Plied quickly his keen nails, through fariousness 
Of ne'er abated pruriency. The crust 
Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales 
Scraped from the bream, or fish of broader mail. 



tfhe Forgers. 2$$ 

Of the two shades, one is Grifolino of Arezzo, who 
promised Albero, son of the bishop of Siena, that he 
would teach him the art of flying, and, because he did 
not keep his promise, Albero prevailed on his father to 
have him burnt as a necromancer. 

Then to the bard I spake : <c Was ever race 
Light as Siena's ? Sure not France herself 
Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." 

The other is the ghost of Capochio, who forged 
metals by the power of alchemy. Having been a 
fellow-student of Dante in natural philosophy, he says 
to him : — 

" If I scan thee right, 
Thou needs must well remember how I aped 
Creative nature by my subtle art."* 

Two pale and furious shades now appear. They 
bury their fangs deep in the necks of Capochio and 
Grifolino, drag them down the pavement, and flesh 
their jaws in them. 

When vanished the two furious shades, on whom 
Mine eye was held, I turned it back to view 
The other cursed spirits. One I saw 
In fashion like a lute, had but the groin 
Been severed where it meets the forked part. 
Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs 
With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch 
Suits not the visage, opened wide his lips, 

* Inferno, xxix. 



226 Adaino of Brescia. 

Gasping as in the hectic man for drought, 

One towards the chin, the other upward curled. 

He is Adamo of Brescia, who, at the instigation of 
Guido, Alessandro, and their brother, the lords of Ro- 
mena, counterfeited the coin of Florence, for which 
he was burned alive. He thus relates his sufferings : — 

<e O ye ! who in this world of misery, 
Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain," 
Thus he began, " attentively regard 
Adamo's woe. When living, fall supply 
Ne'er lacked me of what most I coveted ; 
One drop of water now, alas ! I crave. 
The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes 
Of Casentino, making fresh and soft 
The banks whereby they glide to Arno's stream, 
Stand ever in my view ; and not in vain ; 
For more the pictured semblance dries me up, 
Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh 
Desert these shrivelled cheeks. So from the place, 
Where I transgressed, stern Justice urging me, 
Takes means to quicken more my laboring sighs. 
There is Romena, where I falsified 
The metal with the Baptist's form impressed, 
For which on earth I left my body burnt. 
But if I here might see the sorrowing soul 
Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, 
For Branda's limpid spring I would not change 
The welcome sight. One is e'en now within, 
If truly the mad spirits tell, that round 
Are wandering. But wherein besteads me that ? 
My limbs are fettered. Were I but so light, 



Adamo and Sinon. 227 

That I each hundred years might move one inch, 

I had set forth already on this path, 

Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew, 

Although eleven miles it wind, not less 

Than half of one across. They brought me down 

Among this tribe ; induced by them, I stamped 

The florins with three carats of alloy." 

" Who are the abject pair," I next inquired, 
** That, closely bounding thee upon thy right, 
Lie smoking, like a hand in winter steeped, 
In the chill stream r" " When to this gulf I dropped, 
He answered, Cf here I found them : since that hour 
They have not turned, nor ever shall, I ween, 
Till Time hath run his course. One is that dame, 
The false accuser of the Hebrew youth ; 
Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy. 
Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out, 
In such a cloud upsteamed." When that he heard, 
One, galled perchance to be so darkly named, 
With clinched hand smote him on the braced paunch, 
That like a drum resounded : but forthwith 
Adamo smote him on the face, the blow 
Returning with his arm, that seemed as hard. 

" Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me 
The power to move," said he, " I have an arm 
At liberty for such employ." To whom 
Was answered : ee When thou wentest to the fire, 
Thou hadst it not so ready at command, 
Then readier when it coined the impostor gold." 

And thus the dropsied : " Ay, now speak'st thou true ; 
But there thou gavest not such true testimony, 
When thou wast questioned of the truth, at Troy." 

r * If I spake false, thou falsely stamp'dst the coin," 



228 Adamo and Sinon. 

Said Sinon ; "lam here for but one fault, 
And thou for more than any imp beside." 

" Remember/' he replied, " O perjured one ! 
The horse remember* that did teem with death ; 
And all the world be witness to thy guilt." 

" To thine," returned the Greek, " witness the thirst 
Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound 
Reared by thy belly up before thine eyes, 
A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus : 

" Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass 
Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, 
Yet I am stuffed with moisture. Thou art parched : 
Pains rack thy head : no urging wouldst thou need 
To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." 

I was all fixed to listen, when my guide 
Admonished : <e Now beware ! A little more, 
And I do quarrel with thee." I perceived 
- How angrily he spake, and towards him turned 
With shame so poignant, as remembered yet 
Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm 
Befallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream, 
And that which is, desires as if it were not ; 
Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak, 
Wished to excuse myself, and all the while 
Excused me, though unweeting that I did. 

" More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,' 
My master cried, " might expiate. Therefore cast 
All sorrow from thy soul ; and if again 
Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, 
Think I am ever at thy side. To hear 
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds."* 

* Inferno, xxx. 



tfhe Giants. 



229 



The poets now advance to the ninth circle, which 
is encompassed with giants, and is divided into four 
chasms, one within the other, each devoted to the pun- 
ishment of traitors. In the first, Ca'ina, so called from 
Cain, are the betrayers of their relatives ; in the second, 
Antenora, from Antenor of Troy, are the traitors to 
their country ; in the third, Ptolomea, from Ptolemy the 
betrayer of Pompey, are those who deceive under the 
semblance of kindness ; and in the fourth, Giudecca, from 
Judas, in the midst of which is Lucifer, imprisoned in 
ice, are those who betray their benefactors. 



Turning our back upon the vale of woe, 
We crossed the encircled mound in silence. There 
Was less than day and less than night, that far 
Mine eye advanced not : but I heard a horn 
Sounded so loud, the peal it rang had made 
The thunder feeble. Following its course 
The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent 
On that one spot. So terrible a blast 
Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout 
O'erthrew the host of Charlemain, and quenched 
His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long 
My head was raised, when many a lofty tower 
Methought I spied. "Master," said I, "what land 
Is this ?" He answered straight : " Too long a space 
Of intervening darkness has thine eye 
To traverse : thou hast therefore widely erred 
In thy imagining. Thither arrived 
Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude 
The sense. A little therefore urge thee on." 

Then tenderly he caught me by the hand": 



230 Anteus. 

"Yet know/' said he, "ere farther we advance, 
That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, 
But giants. In the pit they stand immersed, 
Each from his navel downward, round the bank." 

As they approach, the forms of the giants appear more 
distinct. As the walls of the castle of Montereggion, 
near Siena, are crowned with round turrets, so th<* 
shore which encompasses the abyss 

Was turreted with giants, half their length 

Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heaven 

Yet threatens, when his muttering thunder rolls. . . . 

They here encounter, among others, Antaeus, as he 
issues forth from the cave, five ells in height, without 
the head \ and Virgil thus speaks to him : — 

" O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made 
Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword 
Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight, 
Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil 
An hundred lions ; and if thou hadst fought 
In the high conflict on thy brethren's side, 
Seems as men yet believed, that through thine arm 
The sons of earth had conquered ; now vouchsafe 
To place us down beneath, where numbing cold 
Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave 
Or Tityus' help or Typhon's. Here is one 
Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop 
Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip. 
He in the upper world can yet bestow 
Renown on thee ; for he doth live, and looks 
For life yet longer, if before the time 



The Traitors. 231 

Grace call him not unto herself." Thus spake 
The teacher. He in haste forth stretched his hands, 
And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt 
That grapple, straitened sore. Soon as my guide 
Had felt it, he bespake me thus : ' e This way, 
That I may clasp thee;" then so caught me up, 
That we were both one burden. As appears 
The tower of Carisenda, from beneath 
Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud 
So sail across, that opposite it hangs ; 
Such then Antasus seemed, as at mine ease 
I marked him stooping. I were fain at times 
To have passed another way. Yet in the abyss, 
That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, 
Lightly he placed us ; nor, there leaning, stayed ; 
But rose, as in a bark the stately mast.* 

Thus landed in the deepest circle of the Inferno, 
where traitors are imprisoned in ice, symbolic of the 
coldness of heart which leads to the crime, the poet 
thus exclaims : — 



Could I command rough rhymes and hoarse to suit 
That hole of sorrow, o'er which every rock 
His first abutment rears, then might the vein 
Of fancy rise fall springing; but not mine 
Such measures, and with faltering awe I touch 
The mighty theme ; for to describe the depth 
Of all the universe, is no emprize 
To jest with, and demands a tongue not used 
To infant babbling. But let them assist 
My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid 

* Inferno, xxxi. , 



'i 



232 The Traitors. 

Amphion walled in Thebes ; so with the truth 

My speech shall best accord. Oh ! ill-starred folk, 

Beyond all others wretched ! who abide 

In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words 

To speak of, better had ye here on earth 

Been nocks or mountain-goats. At dawn we stood 

In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, 

But lower far than they, and I did gaze 

Still on the lofty battlement, a voice 

Bespake me thus : " Look how thou walkest. Take 

Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads 

Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turned, 

And saw before and underneath my feet 

A lake, whose frozen surface liker seemed 

To glass than water. Not so thick a veil 

In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread 

O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote 

Under the chilling sky. Rolled o'er that mass 

Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fallen, 

Not e'en its rim had creaked. As peeps the frog 

Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams 

The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, 

So, to where modest shame appears, thus low 

Blue pinched and shrined in ice the spirits stood, 

Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. 

His face each downward held ; their mouth the cold, 

Their eyes expressed the dolor 01 their heart. 

Here the poet beholds at his feet two shades closely- 
joined together. Hearing the voice of Dante, they 
bend their necks — 

And when their looks were lifted up to me, 
Straightway their eyes, before all moist within, 



Bocca degli Abati. 233 

Distilled upon their lips, and the frost bound 
The tears betwixt those orbs, and held them there. 
Plank unto plank hath never cramp closed up 
So stoutly. Whence, like two enraged goats, 
They clashed together : them such fury seized. 

He learns that one of these spirits is Camiccione dei 
Pazzi, who had treacherously murdered his kinsman, 
Ubertino, and who here waits for his relative, Carlino, 
a traitor to his country, whose deeper guilt will wash 
out his. They now reach Antenora, and, passing along 
in that eternal cold over the heads of the ghosts im- 
prisoned below, the poet strikes, with his foot, a violent 
blow against the face of one, who thus speaks : 

"Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks, 
Through Antenora roamest, with such force 
As were past sufferance, wert thou living still ?" 

"And I am living, to thy joy perchance," 
Was my reply, " if fame be dear to thee, 
That with the rest I may thy name enroll." 

'* The contrary of what I covet most," 
Said he, " thou tenderest : hence ! nor vex me more, 
111 knowest thou to flatter in this vale." 

Then seizing on his hinder scalp I cried : 
"Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." 

" Rend all away," he answered, " yet for that 
I will not tell, nor show thee, who I am, 
Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times." 

Now I had grasped his tresses, and stripped oiF 
More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes 
Drawn in and downward, when another cried, 
" What ails thee, Bocca ? Sound not loud enough 



234 Count Ugolino. 

Thy chattering teeth, but thou must bark outright ? 

What devil wrings thee ?" — " Nov//' said I, ' ( be dumb, 

Accursed traitor ! To thy shame, of thee 

True tidings will I bear,"— " Off! " he replied; 

" Tell what thou list : but, as thou 'scape from hence, 

To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib, 

Forget not." 

Bocca degli Abati, the shade here alluded to, had 
caused the defeat of the Guelphs at Monteaperti. 
During the engagement, he cut off the hand of the 
bearer of the Florentine standard, causing it to fall, 
and thus spread terror through the army. He relates 
that the spirit who revealed his name was Buoso of 
Cremona, of the family of Duera, who was bribed by 
Guy de Montfort to leave a pass open to the army of 
Charles of Anjou, between Piedmont and Parma, the 
defence of which had been intrusted to him by the 
Ghibelins. He names other traitors who are there ; 
and passing on, the poet — 

Beheld two spirits by the ice 
Pent in one hollow, that the head of one 
Was cowl unto the other; and, as bread 
Is ravened up through hunger, the uppermost 
Did so apply his fangs to the other's brain, 
Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously 
On Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnawed, 
Than on that skull and on its garbage he. 

" O thou ! who show'st so beastly sign of hate 
'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I, 
" The cause, on such condition, that if right 



Count XJgolino. 235 

Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, 

And what the color of his sinning was, 

I may repay thee in the world above, 

If that, wherewith I speak, be moist so long."* 

Ugolino de Gherardeschi, a nobleman of Pisa be- 
longing to the Guelph party, with the aid of the Arch- 
bishop Ruggieri, had expelled from the city Nino of 
Gallura, his nephew, the ruler of the republic, and 
taken possession of the government (1288). But 
Ruggieri soon after betrayed him, and, with the 
aid of the populace, whom he excited to fury, 
seized him, his two sons, and three grandchildren, and 
caused them all to be imprisoned in a tower on the 
piazza of the Anziani. The key of the tower was 
then thrown in the Arno, and the unhappy prisoners 
were left to die of starvation. At the words of Dante — 

His jaws uplifting from their fell repast, 
That sinner wiped them on the hairs o' the head, 
Which he behind had mangled, then began : 
" Thy will obeying, I call up afresh 
Sorrow past cure ; which, but to think of, wrings 
My heart, or ere I tell on 't. But if words, 
That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear 
Fruit of eternal infamy to him, 
The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once 
Shalt see me speak and weep, Who thou mayst be 
I know not, nor how here below art come : 
But Florentine thou seemest of a truth, 
When I do hear thee. Know, I was on earth 

* Inferno, xxxii. 



236 Count Ugolino. 

Count Ugolino, and the Archbishop he, 

Ruggieri. Why I neighbor him so close, 
Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts 
In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en 
And after murdered, need is not I tell. 
What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is, 
How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear, 
And know if he have wronged me. A small grate 
Within that mew, which for my sake the name 
Of famine bears, where others yet must pine, 
Already through its opening several moons 
Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep 
That from the future tore the curtain off! 
This one, methought, as master 01 the sport, 
Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf, and his whelps, 
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight 
Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs 
Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged 
Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi. 
After short course the father and the sons 
Seemed tired and lagging, and methought I saw 
The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke, 
Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard 
My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask 
For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang 
Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold ; 
And if not now, why use thy tears to flow ? 
Nov/ had they wakened ; and the hour drew near 
When they were wont to bring us food ; the mind 
Of each misgave him through his dream, and I 
Heard, at its outlet underneath, locked up 
The horrible tower : whence, uttering not a word, 
I looked upon the visage of my sons. 



Count Ugolmo. 



2 37 



I wept not : so all stone I felt within. 

They wept : and one, my little Anselm, cried, 

c Thou lookest so ! Father, what ails thee ?' Yet 

I shed no tear, nor answered all that day 

Nor the next night, until another sun 

Came out upon the world. When a faint beam 

Had to our doleful prison made its way, 

And in four countenances I descried 

The image of my own, on either hand 

Through agony I bit ; and they, who thought 

I did it through desire of feeding, rose 

O' the sudden, and cried, c Father, we should grieve 

Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us : thou gavest 

These weeds of miserable flesh we wear ; 

And do thou strip them off from us again.' 

Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down 

My spirit in stillness. That day and the next 

We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth ! 

Why open'dst not upon us ? When we came 

To the fourth day, then Gaddo at my feet 

Outstretched did fling him, crying, * Hast no help 

For me, my father ?' There he died ; and e'en 

Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three 

Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth : 

Whence I betook me, now grown blind, to grope 

Over them all, and for three days aloud 

Called on them who were dead. Then, fasting got 

The mastery of grief." Thus having spoke, 

Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth 

He fastened, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone, 

Firm and unyielding. 



The poet, glowing with indignation at this horrible 



238 Fra Alberigo. 

recital, thus raises his voice against Pisa, v/ho had al- 
lowed such crime within her walls : — 

Oh, thou Pisa ! shame 
Of all the people who their dwelling make 
In that fair region, where the Italian voice 
Is heard; since that thy neighbors are so slack 
To punish, from their deep foundations rise 
Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up 
The mouth of Arno ; that each soul in thee 
May perish in the waters. What if fame 
Reported that thy castles were betrayed 
By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou 
To stretch his children on the rack. For them, 
Brigata, Uguccicne, and the pair 
Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told, 
Their tender years, thou modern Thebes, did make 
Uncapable of guilt 

The poets continue to descend to the region below, 
where suffer those who have betrayed under the sem- 
blance of kindness. The ghosts are — 

.... Skarfed in rugged folds of ice, 

Not on their feet were turned, but each reversed. 

There, very weeping suffers not to weep ; 
For, at their eyes, grief, seeking passage, finds 
Impediment, and rolling inward turns 
For increase of sharp anguish : the first tears 
Hang clustered, and like crystal visors show, 
Under the socket brimming all the cup. 

Dante here meets, among others, the shade of Albe- 
rigo dei Manfredi, one of the Frati Gaudenti, or joyous 



Fra Alberigo. 239 

friars, who, having quarrelled with some of his broth- 
erhood, invited them to a banquet under pretence of 
reconciliation, and, at a given signal, assassins rushed 
in and murdered those whom he had marked for de- 
struction. The poet asking who he was — 

•* The friar Alberigo," answered he, 

" Am I, who from the evil garden plucked 

Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date 

More luscious for my fig." — " Ha !" I exclaimed, 

" Art thou too dead ?" — " How in the world aloft 

It fareth with my body," answered he, 

" I am right ignorant. Such privilege 

Hath Ptolomea, that oft-times the soul 

Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorced. 

And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly 

The glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes, 

Know that the soul, that moment she betrays, 

As I did, yields her body to a fiend 

Who after moves and governs it at will, 

Till all its time be rounded : headlong she 

Falls to this cistern. And perchance above 

Doth yet appear the body of a ghost, 

Who here behind me winters. Him thou know'st 

If thou but newly art arrived below. 

The years are many that have passed away, 

Since to this fastness Branca Doria came.' 

cc Now," answered I, " methinks thou mockest me; 
. For Branca Doria never yet hath died, 
But doth all natural functions of a man, 
Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." 

He thus : " Not yet unto that upper foss 
By th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch 



240 Lucifer. 

Tenacious boils, had Michel Zanche reached, 

When this one left a demon in his stead 

In his own body, and of one his kin, 

Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth 

Thy hands and ope mine eyes." I oped them not. 

Ill manners were best courtesy to him. 

Ah, Genoese ! Men perverse in every way, 

With every foulness stained, why from the earth 

Are ye not cancelled ? Such as one of yours 

I with Romagna's darkest spirit found, 

As, for his doings, even now in soul 

Is in Cocytus plunged, and yet doth seem 

In body still alive upon the earth.* 

In the fourth and last gulf of the ninth circle are im- 
prisoned the spirits of those traitors who have betrayed 
their benefactors. They are buried in thick and trans- 
parent ice ; some lie prone, some stand upright, others 
upon their heads, and others again on their faces and 
feet, arched like a bow. Chief among them, in the 
centre of the gulf, is the grim monarch of hell, whose 
wings, like the sails of a gigantic windmill, fan the air 
with their ceaseless motion, and freeze all around in an 
eternal dullness. 

The poet imagines that Lucifer, being expelled from 
heaven, fell headlong on the southern hemisphere with 
such violence, that he sank down to the centre of the 
earth ; and that the terrified earth projected its solid 
mass on the northern hemisphere, so that the sea which 

* Inferno, xxxiii. 



Lucifer. 241 

then covered it rushed on the southern hemisphere — 
while the internal space through which Lucifer passed 
threw itself up and formed the mountain of Purgatory. 
Colossal and monstrous in his form as the highest 
mountain, the arch-enemy is here imprisoned at the 
centre of the earth, firmly wedged in everlasting ice, 
with half of his form looking upward to his awful king- 
dom, while his legs protrude towards the southern 
hemisphere. He has three faces, symbolic of the three 
vices, and of the three powers which prevent Italy and 
man from attaining their destiny. In each of his three 
mouths he champs a sinner : in the middle one, Judas, 
the betrayer of Christ \ in the two others, Brutus and 
Cassius, the murderers of Caesar, the enemies of civili- 
zation and of the empire. 



When to the point we came, 
Whereat my guide was pleased that I should see 
The creature eminent in beauty once, 
He from before me stepped and made me pause. 

"Lo !" he exclaimed, ° lo Dis ; and lo the place, 
Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." 

How frozen and how faint I then became, 
Ask me not, reader ! for I write it not ; 
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state. 
I was not dead nor living. Think thyself^ 
If quick conception work in thee at all, 
How I did feel. That emperor, who sways 
The realm of sorrow, at mid-breast from the ice 
Stood forth ; and I in stature am more like 
A giant, than the giants are his arms. 
22 



242 Lucifer. 

Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits 
With such a part. If he were beautiful 
As he is hideous now, and yet did dare 
To scowl upon his Maker, well from him 
May all our misery flow. Oh, what a sight ! 
How passing strange it seemed, when I did spy 
Upon his head three faces : one in front 
Of hue vermilion, the other two with this 
Midway each shoulder joined and at the crest; 
The right 'twixt wan and yellow seemed ; the left 
To look on, such as come from whence old Nile 
Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth 
Two mighty wings, enormous as became 
A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw 
Outstretched on the wide sea. No plumes had they, 
But were in texture like a bat ; and these 
He flapped i' th' air, that from him issued still 
Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth 
Was frozen. At six eyes he wept : the tears 
Adown three chins distilled with bloody foam. 
At every mouth his teeth a sinner champed, 
Bruised as with ponderous engine ; so that three 
Were in this guise tormented. But far more 
Than from that gnawing, was the foremost panged 
By the fierce rending, whence oft-times the back 
Was stripped of ail its skin. <( That. upper spirit, 
Who hath worst punishment," so spake my guide, 
" Is Judas, he that hath his head within, 
And plies the feet without. Of th' other two, 
Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw 
Who hangs, is Brutus : lo ! how he doth writhe, 
And speaks not. The other, Cassius, that appears 
So large of limb. But night now reascends ; 
And it is time for parting. All is seen.*' 



Exeunt. 243 

Dante now clings round the neck of Virgil, who, 
watching for the moment when the wings of Lucifer 
are opened, catches the shaggy sides of the demon, and 
steps down from pile to pile along his thick hairy sides 
and the jagged ice of Cocytus, in which he lies immov- 
able. They descend through his fell as through a 
tree or a perpendicular wall, which affords some points 
of support, till, reaching the place where the thigh of 
the demon turned upon the swelling of his haunches, 
the very centre of the earth, Virgil turns himself with 
great dexterity, and places his head where his feet had 
been, as the descent now ceases, and the ascent to the 
opposite hemisphere begins. Dante notes that this ac- 
tion of turning was performed with pain and struggling, 
the centripetal force being so great that bodies were 
here subject to immense resistance. The poets at 
length issue forth at a rocky opening in the hemisphere 
opposite to that from which they entered ; and, follow- 
ing the sound of a brooklet which descends along the 
hollow of the rock, they return 

To the fair world : and heedless of repose 
We climbed, he first, I following his steps, 
Till on our view the beautiful lights of heaven 
Dawned through a circular opening in the cave : 
Thence issuing, we again beheld the stars. * 

* Inferno, xxxiv. 



PURGATORIO. 

THE kingdom of darkness is conquered, and vic- 
tory crowns the struggling soul. Man, in the 
development of his higher nature, has conquered the 
beasts which opposed his advance ; he has put to si- 
lence and forced into his service the demons who threat- 
ened him with destruction. Guided by wisdom, he has 
traversed the abysses of iniquity, descended the preci- 
pices and depths of misery, and surveyed all the gloomy 
region of evil. " The abhorred worm that boreth 
through the world" he has made the means of his exit 
from the realm of despair, and now hell is forever 
closed behind him. The second Act in the drama of 
humanity opens, and the poet begins the ascent of the 
mountain of expiation, which leads to the heaven of 
justice and happiness. 

O'er better waves to speed her rapid course 
The light bark of my genius lifts the sail, 
Well pleased to leave so cruel sea behind ; 
And of that second region will I sing, 
In which the human spirit from sinful blot 
t Is purged, and for ascent to Heaven prepares. 

The Purgatorio, as imagined by Dante, rises from the 
ocean in the southern hemisphere, an immense conic 



Purgatorio. 245 

mountain, the antipcde of Mount Zion, which, at the 
time of the poet, was considered as the centre of the 
circumference of the earth. The mountain is divided 
into several cornices, which, beginning at the base, 
ascend in a wide spiral form around the cone, and rep- 
resent the different degrees of human progress. In its 
construction, therefore, it is the reverse of the Inferno, 
the circles of which, symbolic of ever-increasing ini- 
quity, narrow as they descend. As he mounts upward, 
the poet feels his task lighter. His strength increases, 
his nature becomes more and more elevated and spir- 
itualized, till, reaching the top of the mountain, where 
lies the terrestrial paradise, he is at length blessed by 
the vision of the triumphant Beatrice. The ascent of 
the Purgatorio is accomplished in about four days. Its 
principal divisions are: 1. The shore of humility; 2. 
The region inhabited by the spirits of the negligent, 
which, extending from the base of the mountain up- 
ward, forms the vestibule of the purgatory, in which 
four kinds of negligents undergo purification ; 3. The 
circle of pride ; 4. Of envy ; 5. Of irascibility ; 6. 
Of sloth and indifference ; 7. Of parsimony and pro- 
fusion ; 8. Of free living; 9. Of concupiscence ; 10. 
The terrestrial paradise. 

On issuing from the interior of the earth, the poet 
thus describes the change of scene : — 

Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread 
O'er the serene aspect of the pure air, 
High up as the first circle, to mine eyes 
22* 



246 Cato. 

Unwonted joy renewed, soon as I 'scaped 
Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom, 
That had mine eyes and bosom filled with grief. 
The radiant planet, that to love invites, 
Made all the orient laugh, and veiled beneath 
The Pisces' light, that in his escort came. 

Having saluted the four stars of the Southern Cross, 
Which made heaven joyous with their light, Dante be- 
holds Cato of Utica, the guardian of the kingdom of 
progress. 

I saw an old man standing by my 'side 
Alone, so worthy of reverence in his look, 
That ne'er from son to father more was owed. 
Low down his beard, and mixed with hoary white, 
Descended, like his locks, which, parting, fell 
Upon his breast in double fold. The beams 
Of those four luminaries on his face 
So brightly shone, and with such radiance clear 
Decked it, that I beheld him as the sun. 

Cato inquires who they are and whence they came. 

My guide, then laying hold on me, by words 
And intimations, given with hand and head, 
Made my bent knees and eye submissive pay 
Due reverence; then thus to him replied: 

" Not of myself I come ; a Dame from heaven 
Descending, him besought me in my charge 
To bring. But since thy will implies, that more 
Our true condition I unfold at large, 
Mine is not to deny thee thy request. 
This mortal ne'er hath seen the furthest gloom ; 






Cato. 247 

But erring by his folly had approached 

So near, that little space was left to turn. 

Then, as before I told, I was dispatched 

To work his rescue ; and no way remained 

Save this which I have ta'en. I have displayed 

Before him all the regions of the bad ; 

And purpose now those spirits to display, 

That under thy command are purged from sin. 

How I have brought him would be long to say. 

From high descends the virtue, by whose aid 

I to thy sight and hearing him have led. 

Now may our coming please thee. In the search 

Of liberty he journeys : that how dear, 

They know who for her sake have life refused. 

Thou knowest, to whom death for her was sweet 

In Utica, where thou didst leave those weeds, 

That in the last great day will shine so bright. 

For us the eternal edicts are unmoved : 

He breathes, and I of Minos am not bound, 

Abiding in that circle, where the eyes 

Of thy chaste Marcia beam, who still in look 

Prays thee, O hallowed spirit ! to own her thine. 

Then by her love we implore thee, let us pass 

Through thy seven regions : for which, best thanks 

I for thy favor will to her return, 

If mention there below thou not disdain." 

The answer of Cato is characteristic : — 

" Marcia so pleasing in my sight was found," 
He then to him rejoined, * c while I was there, 
That all she asked me I was fain to grant. 
Now that beyond the accursed stream she dwells, 
She may no longer move me, by that law, 



248 He is girt with a Reed. 

Which was ordained me, when I issued thence. 
Not so, if Dame from heaven, as thou sayst, 
Moves and directs thee ; then no flattery needs. 
Enough for me that in her name thou ask/' 

He bids them go, and directs Virgil to gird his com- 
panion with a slender reed, symbolic of simplicity and 
patience ; to lave his face till all sordid stain is wiped 
from it ; and, pointing out the shore where they may 
obtain the reed, he disappears. 

The dawn had chased the matin hour of prime, 
Which, fled before it, so that from afar 
I spied the trembling of the ocean stream. 

We traversed the deserted plain, as one 
Who, wandered from his track, thinks every step 
Trodden in vain till he regain the path. 

When we had come, where yet the tender dew 
Strove with the sun, and in a place where fresh 
The wind breathed o'er it, while it slowly dried ; 
Both hands extended on the watery grass 
My master placed, in graceful act and kind. 
Whence I, of his intent before apprised, 
Stretched out to him my cheeks suffused with tears. 
There to my visage he anew restored 
That hue which the dun shades of hell concealed. 

Then on the solitary shore arrived, 
That never sailing on its waters saw 
Man that could after measure back his course, 
He girt me in such manner as had pleased 
Him who instructed ; and, O strange to tell ! 
As he selected every humble plant, 



handing of Spirits. 

Wherever one was plucked, another there 
Resembling, straightway in its place arose.* 



249 



As the sun rises, the poets, lingering by the shore, 
behold a light coming swiftly over the sea, growing 
larger and brighter as it approaches ; then two wings 
appear, and Virgil exclaims : — 

" Down, down ; bend low 
Thy knees ; behold God's angel : fold thy hands. 
Now shalt thou see true ministers indeed. 
Lo ! how all human means he sets at naught ; 
So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail 
Except his wings, between such distant shores. 
Lo ! how straight up to heaven he holds them reared, 
Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes, 
That not like mortal hairs fall off or change." 

As more and more toward us came, more bright 
Appeared the bird of God, nor could the eye 
Endure his splendor near : I mine bent down. 
He drove ashore in a small bark so swift 
And light, that in its course no wave it drank. 
The heavenly steersman at the prow was seen, 
Visibly written " Blessed' 7 in his looks. 
Within, a hundred spirits and more there sat. 

" In Exitu Israel de Egypto," 
All with one voice together sang, with what 
In the remainder of that hymn is writ. 
Then, soon as with the sign of holy cross 
He blessed them, they at once leaped out on land. 
He, swiftly as he came, returned. The crew, 

* Purgatcrio, i. 



250 Casella. 

There left, appeared astounded with the place, 
Gazing around, as one who sees new sights. 

From every side the sun darted its beams, 
And with his arrowy radiance from mid-heaven 
Had chased the Capricorn, when that strange tribe, 
Lifting their eyes toward us : " If ye know, 
Declare what path will lead us to the mount." 

Them Virgil answered : €€ Ye suppose, perchance, 
Us well acquainted with this place : but here, 
We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst 
We came, before you but a little space, 
By other road so rough and hard, that now 
The ascent will seem to us as play." The spirits, 
Who from my breathing had perceived I lived,' 
Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude 
Flock round a herald sent with olive-branch, 
To hear what news he brings, and in their haste 
Tread one another down ; e'en so at sight 
Of me those happy spirits were fixed, each one 
Forgetful of its errand to depart 
Where, cleansed from sin, it might be made all fair. 

Then one I saw darting before the rest 
With such fond ardor to embrace me, I 
To do the like was moved. O shadows vain ! 
Except in outward semblance : thrice my hands 
I clasped behind it, they as oft returned 
Empty into my breast again. Surprise 
I need must think was painted in my looks, 
For that the shadow smiled and backward drew. 
To follow it I hastened, but with voice 
Of sweetness it enjoined me to desist. 
Then who it was I knew, and prayed of it, 
To talk with me it would a little pause. 






Casella. 251 

It answered : " Thee as in my mortal frame 

I loved, so loosed from it I love thee still, 

And therefore pause : but why walkest thou here ?" 

Dante here recognizes the shade of Casella, " the 
musician in whose company," says Landino, " he often 
recreated his spirits, wearied by severer studies." Ex- 
plaining to him the occasion of his visit to the invisible 
world, the poet thus asks of him a song : — 

" If new law taketh not from thee 
Memory or custom of love-tuned song, 
That whilom all my cares had power to suage ; 
Please thee therewith a little to console 
My spirit, that encumbered with its frame, 
Travelling so far, of pain is overcome." 

" Love, that discourses in my thoughts/'* he then 
Began in such soft accents, that within 
The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide, 
And all whp came with him, so well were pleased, 
That seemed naught else might in their thoughts have room. 

Fast fixed in mute attention to his notes 
We stood, when lo ! that old man venerable 
Exclaiming, " How is this, ye tardy spirits ? 
What negligence detains you loitering here ? 
Run to the mountain to cast off those scales, 
That from your eyes the sight of God conceal." 

As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food 
Collected, blade or tares, without their pride 
Accustomed, and in still and quiet sort, 
If aught alarm them, suddenly desert 

* Amor che nella menu mi ragiona ,• the first verse of a canzone in the 

Con'vito of Dante. 

I 






252 Manfred^ King of Naples. 

Their meal, assailed by more important care ; 
So I that new-come troop beheld, the song 
Deserting, hasten to the mountain side, 
As one who goes, yet, where he tends, knows not. 
Nor with less hurried step did we depart* 

* Reproached by Cato for thus loitering on their way, 
the poets hasten towards the mountain ; and, meeting a 
troop of spirits, they beg them to show them the 
entrance : — 

As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one, 
Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest 
Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose 
To ground, and what the foremost does, that do 
The others, gathering round her if she stops, 
Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern* 
So saw I moving to advance the first, 
Who of that fortunate crew were at the head, 
Of modest mien, and graceful in their gait. 
When they before me had beheld the light 
From my right side fall broken on the ground, 
So that the shadow reached the cave ; they stopped, 
And somewhat back retired : the same did all 
Who followed, though unweeting of the cause. 

Virgil explains to them the reason why the form of 
Dante casts a shadow, and assures them that he is here 
from a virtue derived from heaven. They then point out 
to them the entrance to the mountain ; and one of the 
number, comely, fair, and gentle of aspect, bearing the 

* Purgatorio, ii. 



The Ascent 253 

mark of a wound on his forehead and another on his 
breast, manifests himself to the poet as Manfred, the 
King of Naples and Sicily, and prays him on his return 
to the earth to go and relate to his good daughter 
Costanza, the wife of Peter III., King of Aragon, and 
mother to Frederick, King of Sicily, tidings of him, 
and of what had happened after he had fallen on the 

battle-field. 

" When by two mortal blows 
My frame was shattered, I betook myself 
Weeping to Him, who of free will forgives. 
My sins were horrible : but so wide arms 
Hath goodness infinite, that it receives 
All who turn to it. Had this text divine 
Been of Cosenza's shepherd better scanned, 
Who then by Clement on my hunt was set, 
Yet at the bridge's head my bones had lain, 
Near Benevento, by the heavy mole 
Protected ; but the rain now drenches them, 
And the wind drives, out of the kingdom's bounds, 
Far as the stream of Verde, where, with lights 
Extinguished, he removed them from their bed. 
Yet by their curse we are not so destroyed, 
But that the eternal love may turn, while hope 
Retains her verdant blossom." 

Manfred asks Dante to commend him to his daugh, 
ter, whose prayers may profit him.* 

The poet, aided by his guide, now ascends slowly 
and wearily the almost perpendicular slope till they 
reach a level ledge, where they rest. Dante here 

* Purgatorio, iii. 

n 



254 ^- e ^yP e °f Idleness. 

demands of his guide how far they must journey ,-for, 
he says, the hill mounts higher than the sight of man. 

He thus to me : " Such is this steep ascent, 
That it is ever difficult at first, 
But more a man proceeds, less evil grows. 
When pleasant it shall seem to thee, so much 
That upward going shall be easy to thee 
As in a vessel to go down the tide, 
Then of this path thou wilt have reached the end. 
There hope to rest thee from thy toil. No more 
I answer, and thus far for certain know." 
As he his words had spoken, near to us 
A voice there sounded : " Yet ye first perchance 
May to repose you by constraint be led." 
At sound thereof each turned ; and on the left 
A huge stone we beheld, of which nor 
Nor he before was ware. Thither we drew ; 
And there were some, who in the shady place 
Behind the rock were standing, as a man 
Through idleness might stand. Among them one, 
Who seemed to be much wearied, sat him down, 
And with his arms did fold his knees about, 
Holding his face between them downward bent. 

" Sweet Sir !" I cried, " behold that man who shows 
Himself more idle than if laziness 
Were sister to him." Straight he turned to us, 
And, o'er the thigh lifting his face, observed, 
Then in these accents spake : " Up then, proceed, 
Thou valiant one." Straight who it was I knew; 
Nor could the pain I felt (for want of breath 
Still somewhat urged me) hinder my approach. 
And when I came to him, he scarce his head 



Other Spirits. 

Uplifted, saying, " Well hast thou discerned, 
How from the left the sun his chariot leads." 



255 



Dante recognizes, in this ideal of laziness, Belacqua, 
an excellent master of the harp and lute, who had been 
very negligent in his temporal affairs. The poet is 
moved to laughter by his lazy and broken words, and 
asks him why he does not strive to mount the hill. 

Then he : " My brother ! of what use to mount, 
When, to my suffering, would not let me pass 
The bird of God, who at the portal sits ? 
Behoves so long that heaven first bear me round 
Without its limits, as in life it bore ; 
Because I, to the end, repentant sighs 
Delayed ; if prayer do not aid me first, 
That riseth up from heart which lives in grace, 
What other kind avails, not heard in heaven ?"* 

Proceeding upward, they meet a troop of spirits, 
who express surprise that the figure of Dante casts a 
shadow, and inquire concerning his condition ; when 
they learn that he is yet in the flesh, they flock around 
him in crowds, saying : — 

" O spirit ! who go'st on to blessedness, 
With the same limbs that clad thee at thy birth," 
Shouting they came : "a little rest thy step. 
Look if thou any one among our tribe 
Hast e'er beheld, that tidings of him there 
Thou mayst report. Ah, wherefore go'st thou on? 

* Purgatorio, iv. 



256 Buonconte di Montefeltro. 

Ah, wherefore tarriest thou not ? We all 

By violence died, and to our latest hour 

Were sinners, but then warned by light from heaven ; 

So that, repenting and forgiving, we 

Did issue out of life at peace with God, 

Who, with desire to see Him, fills our heart." 

Then I : " The visages of all I scan, 
Yet none of ye remember. But if aught 
That I can do may please you, gentle spirits ! 
Speak, and I will perform it; by that peace, 
Which, on the steps of guide so excellent 
Following, from world to world, intent I seek." 

Here the shade of Giacopo del Cassero, a citizen of 
Fano, relates his story. He had spoken ill of Azzo da 
Este, Marquis of Ferrara, who for this sent his assas- 
sins to put him to death. He was overtaken at Oriaco, 
a place near the Brenta, where his "life-blood" was 
shed. The next who speaks is Buonconte di Monte- 
feltro, who had fallen in the battle of Campaldino. 
As his body had never been found, Dante asks what 
became of it. 

" Oh !" answered he, " at Casentino's foot 
A stream there courseth, named Archiano, sprung 
In Apennine above the hermit's seat. 
E'en where its name is cancelled, there came I, 
Pierced in the throat, fleeing away on foot, 
And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech 
Failed me ; and, finishing with Mary's name, 
I fell, and tenantless my flesh remained. 
I will report the truth ; which thou again 



La Pia. 257 

Tell to the living. Me God's angel took, 

While he of hell exclaimed : c O thou from heaven ! 

Say wherefore hast thou robbed me ? Thou of him 

The eternal portion bear'st with thee away, 

For one poor tear that he deprives me of. 

But of the other, other rule I make.' " 

He relates that the evil spirit raised a storm, that the 
Archiano overflowed, and his body was hurled along 
into the Arno, and there buried. 

Buonconte has scarcely concluded when another 
shade thus speaks : — 

" Ah ! when thou to the v/orld shalt be returned, 
And rested after thy long road," so spake 
Next the third spirit, " then remember me. 
I once was Pia. Siena gave me life ; 
Maremma took it from me. That he knows, 
Who me with jewelled ring had first espoused." 

The unfortunate lady whose ghost is here introduced, 
belonged to the family of the Tolomei of Siena. She 
married Count Nello della Pietra, who murdered her in 
1295, in Maremma. The reason which prompted the 
deed, and the kind of death to which she was subjected, 
as well as its cause, remained a mystery. According to 
some chroniclers, the Count made way with her for the 
purpose of marrying another ; according to others, for 
revenge. In the six lines alluding to her death, as a 
secret known only to her husband, whom she abstains 
from accusing ; to the matrimonial ring first given to 
her, then to another ; and in her prayer to be remem- 
2 3* 



258 Sordello. 

bered among the living, we have a picture, a historv, 
and a tragedv.* 

Entreating the poet to obtain for them the pravers of 
their friends on earth, the shades crowd around him, as 

When from their game of dice men sepa:a:e, 
He who hath lost remains in sadness fixed, 
Revolving in his mind what luckless throws 
He cast : but, meanwhile, all the company 
Go with the other ; one before him runs, 
And one behind his mantle twitches, one 
Fast by his side bids him remember him. 
He stops not; and each one, to whom r. 
Is stretched, well knows he bids him stand aside ; 
And thus he from the press defends himself. 
E'en such w T as I in that close-crowding thror.g ; 
And turning so my face around to all, 
And promising, I 'scaped from it with pains. 

The poets continue their ascent, when the solitary 
shade of Sordello, the Lombard Troubadour, appears, 
looking towards them. 

We soon approached it. O thou Lombard spirit 
How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood, 
Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes. 
It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass, 
Eying us as a lion on his watch. 
But Virgil, with entreaty mild, advanced, 
Requesting it to show the best ascent. 
It answer to his question none returned ; 
But of our country and our kind of life 

* Purgatorio, v. 



An Invective. 259 

Demanded. When my courteous guide began, 
" Mantua," the shadow, in itself absorbed, 
Rose towards us from the place in which it stood, 
And cried, " Mantuan ! I am thy countryman, 
Sordello." Each the other then embraced. 

Witnessing the sweet scene, the poet thus exclaims : 

Alv slavish Italy ! thou inn of grief! 
Vessel without a pilot in loud storm ! 
Lady no longer of fair provinces ! 
But brothel-house impure ! this gentle spirit, 
Even from the pleasant sound of his dear land, 
Was prompt to greet a fellow-citizen 
With such glad cheer : while now thy living ones 
In thee abide not without war ; and one 
Malicious gnaws another ; ay, of those 
Whom the same wall and the same moat contains. 
Seek, wretched one ! around thy sea-coasts wide ; 
Then homeward to thy bosom turn ; and mark, 
If any part of thee sweet peace enjoy. 
What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand 
Refitted, if thy saddle be unpressed ? 
Naught doth he now but aggravate thy shame. 
Ah, people ! thou obedient still shouldst live, 
And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit, 
If well thou markedst that which God commands. 

Look how that beast to fellness hath relapsed, 
From having lost correction of the spur, 
Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand, 
O German Albert ! who abandon'st her 
That is grown savage and unmanageable, 
When thou shouldst clasp her flanks with forked heels. 
Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood; 






260 An Invective. 

And be it strange and manifest to all ; 

Such as may strike thy successor with dread; 

For that thy sire and thou haye suffered thus, 

Through greediness of yonder realms detained, 

The garden of the empire to run waste. 

Come, see the Capulets and Montagues, 

The Filippeschi and Monaldi, man 

Who carest for naught ! those sunk in grief, and these 

With dire suspicion racked. Come, cruel one ! 

Come, and behold the oppression of the nobles, 

And mark their injuries ; and thou mayst see 

What safety Santafiore can supply. 

Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee, 

Desolate widow, day and night with moans, 

" My Cassar, why dost thou desert my side f 

Come, and behold what love among thy people : 

And if no pity touches thee for us, 

Come, and blush for thine own report. For me, 

If it be lawful, O Almighty Power ! 

Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified, 

Are thy just eyes turned elsewhere ? or is this 

A preparation, in the wondrous depth 

Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end, 

Entirely from our reach of thought cut off? 

So are the Italian cities all o'erthronged 

With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made 

Of every petty factious villager. 

My Florence ! thou mayst well remain unmoved, 
At this digression, which affects not thee : 
Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed. 
Many have justice in their heart, that long 
Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow, 
Or ere it dart unto its aim : but thine 



Sordello and Virgil. 



261 



Have it on their lip's edge. Many refuse 
To bear the common burdens : readier thine 
Answer uncalled, and cry, " Behold I stoop !" 

Make thyself glad, for thou hast reason now, 
Thou wealthy ! thou at peace ! thou wisdom-fraught ! 
Facts best will witness if I speak the truth. 
Athens and Lacedaemon, who of old 
Enacted laws, for civil arts renowned, 
Made little progress in improving life 
Towards thee, who usest such nice subtlety, 
That to the middle of November scarce 
Reaches the thread thou in October weavest. 
How many times within thy memory, 
Customs, and laws, and coins, and offices 
Have been by thee renewed, and people changed. 

If thou remember'st well and canst see clear, 
Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch, 
Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft 
Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain.* 

When Sordello understands that the shade with 
whom he has been speaking is Virgil, — 

As one, who aught before him suddenly 
Beholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries, 
" It is, yet is not," wavering in belief; 
Such he appeared ; then downward bent his eyes, 
And, drawing near with reverential step, 
Caught him, where one of mean estate might clasp 
His lord. " Glory of Latium !" he exclaimed, 
" In whom our tongue its utmost power displayed ; 
Boast of my honored birth-place ! what desert 



* Purgatorio, vi. 



262 J r alle Fwrita. 

Of mine, what favor, rather, undeserved, 
Shows thee to me ? If I to hear that voice 

Am worthy, say if from below thou comest, 

And from what cloister's pale." — "Through every orb 

Of that sad region," he replied, " thus far 

Am I arrived, by heavenly influence led; 

And with such aid I come. Not for my doing, 

But for not doing, have I lost the light 

Of that high Sun, whom thou desirest, and who 

By me too late was known. There is a place 

There underneath, not made by torments sad, 

But by dun shades alone; where mourning's voice 

Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs. 

There I with little innocents abide, 

Who by death's fangs were bitten, ere exempt 

From human taint." 

The day declines, and Sordello invites the poets to 
come with him to a beautiful valley, where they may 
rest for the night, and from whence they may behold 
the shades of the monarchs who have been guilty of 
negligence. From an eminence they see the valley. 

Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refined, 
And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood 
Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds 
But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers 
Placed in that fair recess, in color all 
Had been surpassed, as great surpasses less. 
Nor Nature only there lavished her hues, 
But of the sweetness of a thousand smells 
A rare and undistinguished fragrance made. 

Sordello points out the shades of the Emperor Ro- 



I 



Two Angels. 263 

dolph, Ottocar, King of Bohemia, Philip III. of France, 
Henry of Navarre, Peter III. of Aragon, Charles I. of 
Naples, Henry III. of England, and in a few words 
characterizes each.* 

Now was the hour that wakens fond desire 
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart 
Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell, 
And pilgrim newly on his road with love 
Thrills, if he hear the vesper-bell from far, 
That seems to mourn for the expiring day : 
When I, no longer taking heed to hear, 
Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark 
One risen from its seat, which with its hand 
Audience implored. Both palms it joined and raised, 
Fixing its steadfast gaze toward the east, 
As telling God, " I care for naught beside. " 

* c Te Lucis Ante," so devoutly then 
Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain, 
That all my sense in ravishment was lost. 
And the rest after, softly and devout, 
Followed through all the hymn, with upward gaze 
Directed to the bright supernal wheels. 

The spirits now meekly look up, as if in expectation. 
Two angels are seen descending, armed with flame- 
illumined swords, — 

Broken and mutilated of their points. 
Green as the tender leaves but newly born, 
Their vesture was, the which, by wings as green 
Beaten, they drew behind them, fanned in air. 

* Purgatorio, vii. 



264 %he Se 

A little over us one took his stand, 

The other lighted on the opposing hill, 

So that the troop were in the midst contained. 

Sordello informs the poets that the angels have come 

to guard the valley against the serpent, who will soon 
appear. The three now descend into the valley to 
hold converse with the shades, among which Dante 
recognizes that of his friend Nino de Visconti, of Pisa, 
nephew to Count Ugolino, a chief of the Guelphs, and 
a judge in Galiura, of Sardinia, who had ::ught with 
him in the battle of Campaldino. 

Mutually towards each other we advanced. 
ei Nino, thou courteous judge ! what joy I felt 
When I perceived thou wert not with the bad." 

While they are speaking, Sordello 

Cried: :; L: there Jul enemy !" 
And with his hand pointed that way to look. 

Along the side, where barrier none arose 
Around the little vale, a serpe:;: by, 
Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food. 
Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake 
Came on, reverting oft his lifted head ; 
And, as a beast that smooths ::. : ~:li:.z& coat, 
Licking his back. I saw not, nor can tell, 
How those celestial falcons from their seat 
Moved, but in motion each one well descried. 
Healing the air cut by their verdant plumes, 
The serpent fled; and, to the. us, back 

The angels up returned with equal flight. 



Hhe Eagle. 265* 

The poet, here addressing Conrad Malaspina, eulo- 
gizes his family ; when Conrad foretells that he will 
soon have still better cause for the good opinion he 
expresses, in the kind reception he will receive by his 
descendant, Morello.* 

The day dawns, and Dante, overcome by sleep, 
sinks down upon the grass where they had been 

seated. 

In that hour, 
When near the dawn the swallow her sad lay, 
Remembering haply ancient grief, renews ; 
And when our minds, more wanderers from the flesh, 
And less by thought restrained, are, as 'twere, full 
Of holy divination in their dreams; 
Then, in a vision, did I seem to view 
A golden-feathered eagle in the sky, 
With open wings, and hovering for descent; 
And I was in that place, methought, from whence 
Young Ganymede, from his associates reft, 
Was snatched aloft to the high consistory. 
" Perhaps," thought I within me, " here alone 
He strikes his quarry, and elsewhere disdains 
To pounce upon the prey." Therewith, it seemed, 
A little wheeling in his aery tour, 
Terrible as the lightning, rushed he down, 
And snatched me upward even to the fire. 
There both, I thought, the eagle and myself^ 
Did burn ; and so intense the imagined flames, 
That needs my sleep was broken ofE 

The eagle by which the poet imagines himself 

* Purgatorio, viii. 
24 



266 Hhey Enter the Purgatorio. 

snatched from the earth and carried to the sphere of 
fire, is the symbol of genius, which descends on the 
poet, and, lifting him up to the highest heavens, 
inflames him with the love of humanity, to whose 
progress he feels himself consecrated. Awakening 
terror-stricken from his dream, Dante finds Virgil at 
his side, who tells him that while he was sleeping, 
Lucia had come and borne him upwards in her arms to 
the place where they then were, and that, pointing out 
the entrance to the Purgatorio, she had disappeared. 

Entering a breach as of a wall, they see a portal 
with three steps, — the lowest of white marble, smooth 
and polished ; the next broken and of a dark hue ; and a 
third of porphyry, symbolizing purity of conscience, 
contrition, and love. An angel guards the entrance ; 
he wears an ash-colored robe, and bears a naked sword 
in his hand. Hearing from Virgil that they had come 
by the order of a heavenly lady, he admits them to the 
realm of expiation. Before him Dante thrice prostrates 
himself, and the angel inscribes the letter P (Pec cat a) 
seven times on the forehead of the poet with the 
blunted point of his drawn sword, denoting the seven 
capital sins. Then drawing from beneath his vestment 
two keys, one of gold and the other of silver, symbolic 
of science and virtue, he opens the gate, saying : — 

" Enter, but this warning hear, 
He forth again departs who looks behind." 



Sculptures. 



267 



As they advance, the penitents sing the hymn, "We 
praise thee, O God !" 

In accents blended with sweet melody. 

The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound 

Of choral voices, that in solemn chant 

With organ mingle, and, now high and clear 

Come swelling, now float indistinct away.* 

The extensive region lying at the base of the Purga- 
torio, which the poets have passed, is the abode of the 
negligent, who outnumber all other sinners. After 
passing the gate, they ascend a winding path up the 
rock till they reach an open space or cornice extending 
around the mountain, the ascending side of which is 
of white marble, wonderfully wrought with sculptured 
stories of humility, designed for the contemplation of 
the proud, who here expiate their sin. The dignity of 
art as an educational power has never been so nobly 
asserted as in the following passages : — 

The angel (who came down to earth 
With tidings of the peace so many years 
Wept for in vain, that oped the heavenly gates 
From their long interdict) before us seemed, 
In a sweet act, so sculptured to the life, 
He looked no silent image. One had sworn 
He had said " Hail !" for she was imaged there, 
By whom the key did open to God's love ; 
And in her act as sensibly impressed 
That word, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord," 
As figure sealed on wax. 

* Purgatorio, ix, 



268 Sculptures. 

Next engraven on the rock he sees 

The cart and kiue, drawing the sacred ark, 
That from unbidden office awes mankind. 
Before it came much people ; and the whole 

Parted in seven quires. One sense cried " Nay/' 

Another, " Yes, they sing." Like d:ubt arose 

Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curled fume 

Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil. 

Preceding the blest vessel, onward came 

With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise, 

Israel's seet harper: in that hap he seemed 

Less, ana ye: more, :han kingly. Opposite, 

At a grea: palace, from :he la::ice forth 

Locked Michel, like a lady fall of scorn 

And sorrow. T: beheld :he tabic: next, 

Which, a: :he beck of Michel whitely shone, 

I moved me. There, was storied en the rock 

Tne exalted glory cf the Roman prince, 

VI n: : e mighty worth moved Gregory to eam 

His mighty concuest, Trajan the Emoercr. 

A widow at his bridle stood, attired 

In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped 

Full throng of knights ; and overhead in gold 

The eagles floated, struggling with the wind. 

Tne wretch arneared amid all these to say : 

" Grant vengeance, Sire ! for, woe beshrew this heart, 

My son is murdered." He rerlying seemed : 

(i Wait now till I return." And she, as one 

Mane hasty by her grief: *'"' O Sire ! if then 

Dost not return ?" — " Where I am, who then is, 

May right thee." — " What to thee is. other's good, 

If thou neglect thy own?" — "Now comfort thee/' 

At length he answers. " It beseemeth well 



tfhe Proud. 



269 



My duty be performed, ere I move hence : 
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay." 

He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produced 
That visible speaking, new to us and strange, 
The like not found on earth. Fondly I gazed 
Upon those patterns of meek humbleness, 
Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake ; 
When t€ Lo !" the poet whispered, "where this way 
(But slack their pace) a multitude advance. 
These to the lofty steps shall guide us on." 

Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights, 
Their loved allurement, were not slow to turn. 

Reader ! I would not that amazed thou miss 
Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God 
Decrees our debts be cancelled. Ponder not 
The form of suffering. Think on what succeeds : 
Think that, at worst, beyond the mighty doom 
It cannot pass. " Instructor !" I began, 
" What I see hither tending, bears no trace 
Of human semblance, nor of aught beside 
That my foiled sight can guess." He answering thus : 
" So courbed to earth, beneath their heavy terms 
Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first 
Struggled as thine. But look intently thither ; 
And disentangle with thy laboring view, 
What, underneath those stones, approacheth : now, 
E'en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each." 

Christians and proud ! O poor and wretched ones ! 
That, feeble in the mind's eye, lean your trust 
Upon unstaid perverseness : know ye not 
That we are worms, yet made at last to form 
The winged insect, imped with angel plumes, 
That to Heaven's justice unobstructed soars ? 
24* 



270 The Lord's Prayer. 

Why buoy ye up aloft your unfledged souls ? 
Abortive then and shapeless ye remain, 
Like the untimely embryon of a worm. 

As, to support incumbent floor or roof, 
For corbel, is a figure sometimes seen, 
That crumples up its knees unto its breast; 
With the feigned posture, stirring ruth unfeigned 
In the beholder's fancy ; so I saw 
These fashioned, when I noted well their guise. 

Each, as his back was laden, came indeed 
Or more or less contracted; and it seemed 
As he, who showed most patience in his look, 
Wailing exclaimed : u I can endure no more."* 

The spirits, as they pass round the first circle, recite 
the Lord's Prayer: — 

" O Thou Almighty Father ! who dost make 
The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confined, 
But that, with love intenser, there Thou view'st 
Thy primal effluence ; hallowed be Thy name : 
Join, each created being, to extol 
Thy might ; for worthy humblest thanks and praise 
Is Thy blest Spirit. May Thy kingdom's peace 
Come unto us ; for we, unless it come, 
With ail our striving, thither tend in vain. 
As, of their will, the angels unto Thee 
Tender meet sacrifice, circling Thy throne 
With loud hosannas ; so of theirs be done 
By saintly men on earth. Grant us, this day, 
Our daily manna, without which he roams 
Through this rough desert retrograde, who most 

* Purgatorio, x. 



Oderigi da Gubbio. 271 

Toils to advance his steps. As we to each 
Pardon the evil done us, pardon Thou, 
Benign, and of our merit take no count. 
'Gainst the old adversary, prove Thou not 
Our virtue, easily subdued; but free 
From his incitements, and defeat his wiles. 
This last petition, dearest Lord ! is made 
Not for ourselves ; since that were needless now ; 
But for their sakes who after us remain." 

Here one of the shades reveals himself as Umberto, 
son of the Count Santafiore, of Siena, who, in his ar- 
rogance, forgot nature, " the common mother," and 
became so scornful of his fellow-men, that he was at 
last murdered. While the poet stoops to listen to his 
story, another spirit, bowed beneath his burden, recog- 
nizes and calls him by name. It is his friend Oderigi 
da Gubbio, the friend of Giotto, the glory of the art of 
illuminating, then held in high esteem. Oderigi con- 
fesses that his fame is now obscured by that of Franco 
da Bologna, formerly his pupil, the founder of the Bo- 
lognese school of painting, to whom, while living, he 
had been unkind, fearing he would surpass him, and for 
this sin he now suffers the penalty. But the law of 
progress in art is irresistible. 



O powers of man ! how vain your glory, nipped 
E'en in its height of verdure, if an age 
Less bright succeed not. Cimabue thought 
To lord it over painting's field ; and now 
The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed. 



272 Worldly Fame. 

Thus hath one Guido from the other snatched 
The lettered prize : and he., perhaps, is born 
Who shall drive either from their nest. 

The two here referred to are Guido Cavalcanti and 
Guido Guinicelli, from whom he snatched the prize of 
letters. In saving that he perhaps is born who shall 
drive either from their nest, Dante doubtless referred to 
himself. Now Oderigi, fully convinced of the vanity 
of worldly reputation, thus exclaims : — 

. . . . " The noise 
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, 
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name > 
Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more 
Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh 
Part shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst died 
Before the coral and the pap were left ; 
Or e'er some thousand years have passed ? and that 
Is, to eternity compared, a space 
Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye 
To the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treads 
So leisurely before me, far and wide 
Through Tuscany resounded once; and now 
Is in Siena scarce with whispers named : 
There was he sovereign, when destruction caught 
The maddening rage of Florence, in that day 
Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown 
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go ; 
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang 
Crude from the lap of earth." 

The shade pointed out by Oderigi is the spirit of 
Provenzano Salvani, who, while living, presumed to 



Sculptures. 



273 



seize the supreme power in Siena. He is here never 
resting, curved under an enormous weight.* 

Virgil desiring Dante to look where they are treading, 
he observes that the stone is wrought with sculptures 
exhibiting various instances, in history and fable, of the 
punishment of pride. 

As, in memorial of the buried, drawn 
Upon earth-levelled tombs, the sculptured form 
Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof 
Tears often stream forth, by remembrance waked, 
Whose sacred stings the piteous often feel), 
So saw I there, but with more curious skill 
Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space 
From forth the mountain stretches. On one part 
Him I beheld, above all creatures erst 
Created noblest, lightening fall from heaven: 
On the other side, with bolt celestial pierced, 
Briareus ; cumbering earth he lay, through dint 
Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god, 
With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire, 
Armed still, and gazing on the giant's limbs 
Strewn o'er the ethereal field. Nimrod I saw : 
At foot of the stupendous work he stood, 
As if bewildered, looking on the crowd 
Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain. 

O Niobe ! in what a trance of woe 
Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn, 
Seven sons on either side thee slain. O Saul ! 
How ghastly didst thou look, on thine own sword 
Expiring, in Gilboa, from that hour 
Ne'er visited with rain from heaven, or dew. 

Purgatorio, xi. 



2 74 sir. Ar.gd. 



O fond Arachne ! thee I also saw, 

Hair" sriier now, in anguish, crawling up 

The unfinished web thou weavedst to thy bane. 

* * * * >< ^: 

Hau traced the snades and lines, that migh: have made 
The subtlest workman wonder; Dead, the dead; 
The living seemed alive : with clearer view, 
His eye beneld no:, who beheld the truth,, 
Than mine wha: I did mead en, while I wen: 
Lew bending. Now swell on:, and wi:h stir? necks 
Pass on, ye sens c: Eve ! veil no: your leeks, 
Lest ::.zy descry urn evil of ycur earn. 

An angel now appears. 

Of tremul us lustre like the matin star. 

His arms he opened, then his wings ; and spake : 

™ Onward ! the steps, behold, are near; and now 

The aseen: is withrut femculty gained." 

A scanty few are they, who, when they hear 
Such doings, has:en. O, ye race c: men ! 
Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind 
Se slight :: came ye ; He leu us en 
Where me reck named ; lame, against my from:, 
Did beat his wings; then promised I should fere 
In safety on my way. 

Dune huim, himsmf ii^hmrmd in his ascent, Virgil 
explains :: hen ma: i: is coving to the touch cf the 
angel's wing, which, purlfvum : an pride, has re- 

moved from his forehead the hrst of the letters there 



The Envious. 



275 



inscribed ; and that when all shall be erased, he will 
feel no sense of labor in his upward way. 

Then like to one, upon whose head is placed 
Somewhat he deems not of, but from the becks 
Of others, as they pass him by ; his hand 
Lends therefore help to assure him, searches, finds, 
And well performs such office as the eye 
Wants power to execute : so stretching forth 
The fingers of my right hand, did I find 
Six only of the letters, which his sword, 
Who bare the keys, had traced upon my brow. 
The leader, as he marked mine action, smiled.* 

The poets now reach the second cornice, where the 
shades of those whose lives had been stained with envy 
undergo purification. As they go on, they hear invisi- 
ble spirits singing songs which record examples of love 
and affection, the poet thus introducing music as an 
instrument of moral progress. Multitudes of shades 
appear, imploring the prayers of the saints. 

I do not think there walks on earth this day 
Man so remorseless, that he had not yearned 
With pity at the sight that next I saw. 
Mine eyes a load of sorrow teemed, when now 
I stood so near them, that their semblances 
•Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile 
Their covering seemed ; and, on his shoulder, one 
Did stay another, leaning ; and all leaned 
Against the cliff. E'en thus the blind and poor, 
Near the confessionals, to crave an alms, 

* Purgatorio, xii. 



276 The Envious. 

Stand, each his head upon his fellow's sunk ; 

So most to stir compassion, not by sound 

Of words alone, but that which moves not less, 

The sight of misery. And as never beam 

Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man, 

E'en so was heaven a niggard unto these 

Of his fair light : for, through the orbs of all, 

A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, 

As for the taming of a haggard hawk. 

It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look 
On others, yet myself the while unseen. 
To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. 
He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, 
Nor waited for my questioning, but said : 
" Speak ; and be brie£ be subtile in thy words." . 

On that part of the cornice, whence no rim 
Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come ; 
On the other side me were the spirits, their cheeks 
Bathing devout with penitential tears, 
That through the dread impalement forced a way. 

I turned me to them, and " O shades !" said I, 
" Assured that to your eyes unveiled shall shine 
The lofty light, sole object of your wish, 
So may Heaven's grace clear whatsoe'er of foam 
Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth 
The stream of mind roll limpid from its source ; 
As ye declare (for so shall ye impart 
A boon I dearly prize) if any soul 
Of Latium dwell among ye : and perchance 
That soul may profit, if I learn so much." 

" My brother ! we are, each one, citizens 
Of one true city. Any, thou wouldst say, 
Who lived a stranger in Italia's land." 



I'ke Ghost of Sapia. 



277 



So heard I answering, as appeared, a voice 
That onward came some space from whence I stood. 

A spirit I noted, in whose look was marked 
Expectance. Ask ye how ? The chin was raised 
As in one reft of sight. " Spirit," said I, 
"Who for thy rise art tutoring (if thou be 
That which didst answer to me), or by place, 
Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee." 

" I was," it answered, " of Siena : here 
I cleanse away with these the evil life, 
Soliciting with tears that He, who is, 
Vouchsafe Him to us. Though Sapia named, 
In sapience I excelled not ; gladder far 
Of other's hurt, than of the good befell me. 
That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not, 
Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. 
When now my years sloped waning down the arch, 
It so bechanced, my fellow-citizens 
Near v Colle met their enemies in the field ; 
And I prayed God to grant what He had willed. 
There were they vanquished, and betook themselves 
Unto the bitter passages of flight. 
I marked the hunt ; and waxing out of bounds 
In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow, 
And, like the merlin cheated by a gleam, 
Cried, e It is over. Heaven ! I fear thee not. 5 
Upon my verge of life I wished for peace 
With God ; nor yet repentance had supplied 
What I did lack of duty, were it not 
The hermit Piero, touched with charity, 
In his devout oraisons thought on me. 
But who art thou that question'st of our state, 
Who go'st, as I believe, with lids unclosed, 
*5 



2j8 Guido del Dura. 

And breathest in thy talk r" — " Mine eyes," said I, 
™ May yet be here ta'en from me ; but not long ; 
For they have not offended grievously 
With envious glances. But the woe beneath 
Urges my soul with more exceeding dread. 
That nether load already weighs me down," 

She thus : " Who then, among us here aloft, 
Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return r" 

" He," answered I, * c who standeth mute beside me. 
I live : of me ask therefore, chosen spirit ! 
If thou desire I yonder yet should move 
For ehee my mortal feet. "— " Oh \" she replied, 
''' This is so strange a thing, it is great sign 
That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer 
Sometime assist me : and, by that I crave, 
Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet 
E'er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame 
Anonrs: my kindred. Then: sdrd: i:::. beheld 
\ R iih that vain multitude, who set their hope 
On Telamone's haven; there to fail 
Ceevrevrided; mere :hv: whe:: ehe fancied i::eani 
They sought, of Dian called: but they, who lead 
Then r.ivie: neere char rained h:rei shall rr. car::." * 

Here other shaaes h:;::l:r-: the o:et to comfort them 
and to tell them who he is.- He replies that he comes 
f;:::; to ; fa;:.-: : : . _-__; ' : a : 

that of Guido eel Duea, inveighs against the vices of the 

cities watered bv that river. He savs of himself: — 

a £ r . y so parched my blood, that had I seen 

A fell:v--:na:: aaade ;:-'cas, :h:a had;: :::a:l;ea 
A livid -?ale::e:s overspread r:.y cheel:. 
* Porgatorio, xiii. 



A Fog. 279 

Such harvest reap I of the seed I sowed. 

O man ! why place thy heart where there doth need 

Exclusion of participants in good ?"* 

The poets journeying on their upward way, Dante is 
dazzled by an unusual splendor, against which he strives 
in vain to shield his sight. It is the radiance of the 
angel of God, who comes to purify him of another sin, 
and to admit him to the region beyond. As they go 
on, the poet inquires of Virgil : — 

" How can it chance, that good distributed, 
The many, that possess it, makes more rich, 
Than if 'twere shared by few ?" He answering thus : 
" Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth, 
Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good, 
Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed 
To love, as beam to lucid body darts, 
Giving as much of ardor as it finds. 
The sempiternal effluence streams abroad, 
Spreading, wherever charity extends. 
So that the more aspirants to that bliss 
Are multiplied, more good is there to love, 
And more is loved ; as mirrors, that reflect, 
Each unto other, propagated light." 

While Dante narrates an ecstatic vision, in which he 
had beheld many illustrious examples of patience, a fog, 
slowly gathering, envelops them in darkness. f 

Hell's dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark, 
Of every planet 'reft, and palled in clouds, 



* Purgatorio, xiv. 



f Ibid., xv. 



280 Marco Lombardo. 

Did never spread before the sight a veil 
In thickness like that fog,, nor to the sense 
So palpable and gross. Entering its shade, 
Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids ; 
Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide, 
Offering me his shoulder for a stay. 

As the blind man behind his leader walks, 
Lest he should err, or stumble unawares 
On what might harm him or perhaps destroy ; 
I journeyed through that bitter air and foul, 
Still listening to my escort's warning voice, 
ee Look that from me thou part not." Straight I heard 
Voices, and each one seemed to pray for peace, 
And for compassion, to the Lamb of God 
That taketh sins away. Their prelude still 
Was ee Agnus Dei ; M and through all the choir, 
One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seemed 
The concord of their song. Ci Are these I hear 
Spirits, O master r" I exclaimed ; and he, 
ce Thou aim'st aright : these loose the bonds of wrath. " 

The shade of Marco Lombardo now addresses Dante 
through the dense mist, and enters upon a discussion 
concerning the existence of evil. He shows that al- 
though the action of the human soul is always deter- 
mined by motives^ it has also the power of creating those 
motives ; and thus it enjoys the prerogative of free-will, 
which is the source of moral evil. As for social evil v 
Marco attributes it to the union of civil authority with 

spiritual power. 

\ c Laws indeed there are : 
But who is he observes them ? None ; not he, 
Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock, 



A Vision. 



281 



Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof. 

Therefore the multitude, who see their guide 

Strike at the very good they covet most, 

Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause 

Is not corrupted nature in yourselves, 

But ill-conducting, that hath turned the world 

To eviL Rome, that turned it unto good, 

Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams 

Cast light on either way, the world's and God's. 

One since hath quenched the other; and the sword 

Is grafted on the crook ; and, so conjoined, 

Each must perforce decline to worse, unawed 

By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark 

The blade : each herb is judged of by its seed. 

That land, through which Adice and the Po 

Their waters roll, was once the residence 

Of courtesy and valor, ere the day 

That frowned on Frederick ; now secure may pass 

Those limits, whosoe'er hath left, for shame, 

To talk with good men, or come near their haunts. 

Three aged ones are still found there, in whom 

The old time chides the new : these deem it long 

Ere God restore them to a better world : 

The good Gherardo ; of Palazzo he, 

Conrad ; and Guido of Castello, named 

In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard. 

On this at last conclude. The Church of Rome, 

Mixing two governments that ill assort, 

Hath missed her footing, fallen into the mire, 

And there herself and burden much defiled."* 

They now issue forth from the dense vapor, and 
salute the setting sun. The poet has a vision of many 

* Purgatorio, xvi. 
25* 



282 A Syren. 

noted examples of anger ; when a light, outshining far 
our earthly beam, strikes on his closed lids, and he 
hears the voice of an angel, who comes to marshal 
them on their upward way. He feels the waving of 
his wing, and hears whispered in his ear the words : 
tc Blessed they, the peacemakers !" Thus they ascend 
to the fourth cornice or circle, where the sin of indiffer- 
ence is punished. Virgil here presents the moral system 
of the Purgatorio, explains the nature and the genesis 
of human passions, and shows them to be the offspring 
of that love which is the universal law of nature.* 

As Dante listens to his guide, suddenly a multitude 
of shades, impelled by the eagerness of love, are heard 
chanting stories of holy zeal and of noble deeds, min- 
gled with others relating to the sins of indifference and 
idleness. f 

As these shades pass out of sight, Dante falls into 
a dream, in which worldly happiness appears to him as 
a Syren, and her true character is exposed by a lady, the 
symbol of philosophy. 

.... Before me,, in my dream, a woman's shape 
There came, with lips that stammered, eyes aslant, 
Distorted feet, hands maimed, and color pale. 

I looked upon her : and, as sunshine cheers 
Limbs numbed by nightly cold, e'en thus my look 
Unloosed her tongue ; next, in brief space, her form 
Decrepit raised erect, and faded face 
With love's own hue illumed. Recovering speech, 

* Purgatorio, xvii. f Ibid., xviii. 



tfke Angel of God. 



283 



She forthwith, warbling, such a strain began, 
That I, how loath soe'er, could scarce have held 
Attention from the song. " I," thus she sang, 
" I am the Syren, she, whom mariners 
On the wide sea are wildered when they hear : 
Such fulness of delight the listener feels. 
I, from his course, Ulysses by my lay 
Enchanted drew. Whoe'er frequents me once, 
Parts seldom : so I charm him, and his heart, 
Contented, knows no void." Or ere her mouth 
Was closed, to shame her, at my side appeared 
A dame of semblance holy. With stern voice 
She uttered : " Say, O Virgil ! who is this ?" 
Which hearing, he approached, with eyes still bent 
Toward that goodly presence : the other seized her, 
And, her robes tearing, opened her before, 
And showed the belly to me, whence a smell, 
Exhaling loathsome, waked me. Round I turned 
Mine eyes : and thus the teacher : c c At the least 
Three times my voice hath called thee. Rise, begone. 
Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass." 



While Dante follows his guide, he hears a voice 
saying :— ^ 

" Come, enter here," in tone so soft' and mild, 
As never met the ear on mortal strand. 

With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up, 
Who thus had spoken marshalled us along, 
Where, each side of the solid masonry, 
The sloping walls retired ; then moved his plumes, 
And fanning us, affirmed that those, who mourn, 
Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. 



284 Adrian F. 

They reach the fifth cornice, where the sin of 
avarice is cleansed, and here 

A race appeared before me, on the ground 

Ail downward lying prone and weeping sore. 

€< My soul hath cleaved to the dust," I heard 

With sighs so deep, they well-nigh choked the words. 

In answer to Virgil's inquiries, the spirit of Pope' 
Adrian points out to them the ascending path ; he 
relates the events of his life, and explains that he and 
his companions are kept prostrate on the ground for the 
sin of covetousness. 

. . . , <c E'en as our eyes 
Fastened below, nor e'er to loftier clime 
Were lifted ; thus hath justice levelled us, 
Here on the earth. As avarice quenched our love 
Of good, without which is no working ; thus 
Here justice holds us prisoned, hand and foot 
Chained down and bound, while heaven's just Lord shall 

please, 
So long to tarry, motionless, outstretched." 

My knees I stooped, and would have spoke ; but he, 
Ere my beginning, by his ear perceived 
I did him reverence ; and cc What cause," said he, 
cc Hath bowed thee thus ?" — €C Compunction," I rejoined, 
"And inward awe of your high dignity." 

c ' Up," he exclaimed, (S brother ! upon thy feet 
Arise ; err not : thy fellow-servant I, 
(Thine and all others') of one Sovereign Power.* 

* Purgatorio, xix. 



Statins. 



285 



Meantime the poet hears songs recording illustrious 
examples of poverty, and learns that he who sings is the 
spirit of Hugh Capet. He narrates the history of his 
reign, denounces his successors, particularly Philip the 
Fair, Charles of Anjou, and Charles de Valois, and 
foretells the fall of his dynasty. 

As the poets continue on their way, the mountain 
suddenly trembles, as if nodding to its fall, and voices 
from every side shout forth, " Glory be to God in the 
highest !" It is the sign that a soul has closed the 
period of its purification and is about to enter Para- 
dise.* 

The travellers are overtaken by a shade, which 
proves to be that of the poet Statius, who is here 
introduced as the symbol of the moral power inherent 
to poetical genius. He explains to them the laws which 
preside over the realms of expiation, to which he had 
been condemned for his prodigality, and that it is for 
his release that the mountain, but now exulting, shook 
through every pendent cliff and rocky bound. In 
revealing himself as Statius, the spirit, unaware of the 
presence of Virgil, says that he owes to him all his 
fame ; his was the breast at which he hung ; he the muse 
from whom he drank his inspiration, and whose author- 
ity had ever been sacred with him ; and that to have 
lived coeval with the Mantuan he would stay another 
period in his banishment from heaven. 



* Purgatorio, xx. 



286 Statins and VirgiL 

The Mantuan, when he heard him, turned to me ; 
And holding silence, by his countenance 
Enjoined me silence : but the power which wills 
Bears not supreme control : laughter and tears 
Follow so closely on the passion prompts them, 
They wait not for the motions of the will 
In natures most sincere. I did but smile, 
As one who winks ; and thereupon the shade 
Broke ofi^ and peered into mine eyes, where best 
Our looks interpret. cs So to good event 
Mayst thou conduct such great emprize," he cried. 
c c Say, why across thy visage beamed, but now, 
The lightning of a smile ?" On either part 
Now am I straitened ; one conjures me speak, 
The other to silence binds me : whence a sigh 
I utter, and the sigh is heard. €C Speak on," 
The teacher cried : " and do not fear to speak ; 
But tell him what so earnestly he asks." 
Whereon I thus : c c Perchance, O ancient spirit ! 
Thou marvell'st at my smiling. There is room 
For yet more wonder. He who guides my ken 
On high, he is that Mantuan, led by whom 
Thou didst presume of men and gods to sing. 
If other cause thou deem'dst for which I smiled, 
Leave it as not the true one ; and believe 
Those words, thou spakest of him, indeed the cause." 

Now down he bent to embrace my teacher's feet ; 
But he forbade him : ce Brother ! do it not : 
Thou art a shadow, and behold'st a shade."* 

The angel here erases with his wing another emblem 
of sin from the forehead of the poet, and, following 

* Purgatorio, xxi. 



Forese DonatL 287 

Virgil and Statius, he enters the next circle, where the 
vice of gluttony is atoned for. Virgil asks Statius how 
he had been saved, not having been a Christian, to 
which 

He answering thus : ' c By thee conducted first, 
I entered the Parnassian grots, and quaffed 
Of the clear spring ; illumined first by thee, 
Opened mine eyes to God. Thou didst, as one, 
Who, journeying through the darkness, bears a light 
Behind, that profits not himself but makes 
His followers wise, when thou exclaimedst, e Lo ! 
A renovated world, Justice returned, 
Times of primeval innocence restored, 
And a new race descended from above. 5 
Poet and Christian both to thee I owed." 

As they discourse on other poets who dwell in 
Limbo, engarlanded with laurels, they reach a tree 
hung with goodly fruits, breathing sweet fragrance, 
and watered by a crystal stream.* 

They hear sounds of weeping and the chanting of 
hymns. A crowd of spirits, silent and devout, appear, 
gazing at the fruits of the tree, which they are forbid- 
den to gather. Their eyes are dark and hollow ; their 
visages are pale, and so lean that the bones stare 
through the skin. One amidst them turns his deep- 
sunken eyes on Dante, and the poet recognizes him as 
Forese, a brother of Corso Donati, a relative of his 
wife, and one of his dearest friends. Forese explains 

* Purgatorio, xxii, 



288 ^he Poet Buonagiunta. 

that gluttony is the cause of his suffering, and that this 
sin is here purified by hunger and thirst for the fruit 
and the water, the sight of which inflames the desire 
for food and drink. He then inveighs against the 
immodest dress of the Florentine ladies : — 

" A time to come 
Stands full within my view, to which this hour 
Shall not be counted of an ancient date, 
When from the pulpit shall be loudly warned 
The unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bear 
Unkerchiefed bosoms to the common gaze. 
What savage women hath the world e'er seen, 
What Saracens, for whom there needed scourge 
Of spiritual or other discipline, 
To force them walk with covering on their limbs ? 
But did they see, the shameless ones, what Heaven 
Wafts on swift wing toward them while I speak, 
Their mouths were oped for howling ; they shall taste 
Of sorrow (unless foresight cheat me here) 
Or ere the cheek of him be clothed with down, 
Who is now rocked with lullaby asleep."* 

Walking by the side of Dante, Forese points out to 
him the principal shades in the circle, among them that 
of Buonagiunta di Lucca, a celebrated troubadour of the 
age, who, on seeing Dante, whispered the name of 
Gentucca, a lady of Lucca, whom the poet had loved. 
Approaching, Buonagiunta thus speaks : — 

* Purgatorioj xxiii. 



A Prophecy. 289 

' ' Woman is born, 
Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall make 
My city please thee, blame it as they may. 
Go then with this forewarning. If aught else 
My whisper too implied, the event shall tell. 
But say, if of a truth I see the man 
Of that new lay the inventor, which begins 
With c Ladies, ye that con the lore of love.' " 

To whom I thus : " Count of me but as one, 
Who am the scribe of love ; that, when he breathes., 
Take up my pen, and, as he dictates, write." 

Here Buonagiunta praises Dante for the new style, 
inspired by nature, which he had introduced into poetry, 
and which placed him above all his contemporaries, and 
particularly above Buonagiunta himself, whose poems 
had all the artificiality of the age. 

As they are about to part, Forese asks Dante when 
he shall see him again. The poet replies that however 
soon he may return, his wishes will have arrived before 
him, the condition of Florence becoming every day 
worse. Forese, knowing that his brother Corso is the 
principal cause of these calamities, foretells the violent 
death which he will soon meet. 

cc Go now," he cried : c: lo ! he, whose guilt is most, 
Passes before my vision, dragged at heels 
Of an infuriate beast. Toward the vale, 
Where guilt hath no redemption, on it speeds, 
Each step increasing swiftness on the last ; 
Until a blow it strikes, that leaveth him 
A corse most vilely shattered. No long space 
26 



290 The Angel of God. 

Those wheels have yet to roll" (therewith his eyes 
Looked up to heaven), " ere thou shalt plainly see 
That which my words may not more plainly telL 
I quit thee : time is precious here : I lose 
Too much, thus measuring my pace with thine, " 

As from a troop of well-ranked chivalry, 
One knight, more enterprising than the rest, 
Pricks forth at gallop, eager to display 
His prowess in the first encoun:e: proved; 
So parted he from us, with lengthened strides ; 
And left me on the way with those twain spirits, 
Who were such mighty marshals of the world, 

On their way they come to another tree, beneath 
whose boughs, thick with blooming fruit, a multitude 
of spirits raise their hands, striving in vain to gather it. 
From its branches are heard warnings not to come near 
it, but to pass on, and leave this plant, taken from the 
tree whereof Eve tasted. Voices are heard, recounting 
ancient examples of glutton v. The angel of God 
now appears in dazzling light, erases another sign from 
the forehead of the poet, and points out the way which 
leads to the next circle, where carnal sinners are puri- 
fied. 

As when, to harbinger the dawn, springs up 
On freshened wing the air of Mav, and breathes 
Of fragrance, all impregned with herb and flowers ; 
E'en such a wind I felt upon my front 
Blow gently, and the moving of a wing 
Perceived, that, moving, shed ambrosial smell ; 
And then a m voice : ec Blessed are they, whom grace 
Doth so illume, that appetite in them 



Carnal Sinners. 291 

Exhaleth no inordinate desire, 

Still hungering as the rule of temperance wills."* 

Proceeding on their way, Statius explains to Dante 
how shades, which have no need of food, may suffer 
from want of it. He treats of the problem of genera- 
tion, and other subjects relating to animal life, and its 
progress towards the intellectual life. He gives his 
views on the state of the soul after death, the aerial 
body which it takes on its arrival in the other world, 
and its capability of manifesting its feelings and emo- 
tions. While Dante listens to this discussion, the 
rocky precipice on which they walk sends forth a 
blazing fire, leaving only a narrow path between the 
rock and the edge of the cornice. Walking one by 
one, the poet fearing the fire on one hand and the 
precipice on the other, they hear voices from the 
flames, commending examples of chastity. f 

As the poet walks on between the setting sun and 
the fire in which the shades are purified, his passing 
shadow makes the umbered flame burn ruddier. The 
spirits marvel at the light, and ask the cause of it. 
Dante tells them that he is a living man, who, through 
the intercession of a celestial lady, has come to visit 
the kingdoms of death. He in turn questions them as 
to who they are, and who are those who have just 
passed. The shades appear astounded at seeing him, 
but, soon recovering, the spirit of Guido Guinicelli 

* Purgatorio, xxh\ \ Ibid., xxv. 



292 Guido Guinicelli. 

speaks, and explains the nature of the sins of which 
they had been guilty. Guido was a poet, who flour- 
ished in the last part of the thirteenth century. He 
belonged to one of the noble families of Bologna, 
and in the history of the time he figures as a warrior 
and a Ghibelin. His poems, according to Dante, 
marked a decided progress in poetical composition. 

With such pious joy, 
As the two sons upon their mother gazed 
From sad Lycurgus rescued ; such my joy 
(Save that I more repressed it) when I heard 
From his own lips the name of him pronounced, 
Who was a father to me, and to those 
My betters, who have ever used the sweet 
And pleasant rhymes of love. So naught I heard. 
Nor spake ; but long time thoughtfully I went, 
Gazing on him ; and, only for the fire, 
Approached not nearer. When my eyes were fed 
By looking on him ; with such solemn pledge, 
As forces credence, I devoted me 
Unto his service wholly. In reply 
He thus bespake me : e * What from thee I hear 
Is graved so deeply on my mind, the waves 
Of Lethe shall not wash it ofi^ nor make 
A whit less lively. But as now thy oath 
Has sealed the truth, declare what cause impels 
That love, which both thy looks and speech bewray." 
" Those dulcet lays," I answered; " which, as long 
As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, 
Shall make us love the very ink that traced them." 

Guido celebrates the praise of Arnault Daniel, the 



■ 



through the Fire. 293 

Provencal troubadour, whose spirit stands before him, 
and commending his soul to the prayers of the poet — 

Haply to make way 
For one that followed next, when that was said, 
He vanished through the fire, as through the wave 
A fish, that glances diving to the deep.* 

The angel of God now again appears standing before 
the flame, and singing, " Blessed are the pure in heart." 
As the poets approach, he orders them to pass through 
the fire, and to listen to the song they will hear issuing 
from thence. 

I, when I heard his saying, was as one 
Laid in the grave. My hands together clasped, 
And upward stretching, on the fire I looked, 
And busy fancy conjured up the forms 
Ere while beheld alive consumed in flames. 
The escorting spirits turned with gentle looks 
Toward me ; and the Mantuan spake : " My son, 
Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death. 
Pvemember thee, remember thee, if I 
Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee ; now I come 
More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now ? 
Of this be sure ; though in its womb that flame 
A thousand years contained thee, from thy head 
No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth, 
Approach ; and with thy hands thy vesture's hem 
Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief. 
Lay now all fear, oh ! lay all fear aside. 
Turn hither, and come onward undismayed. " 

* Purgatorio, xxvi. 
26* 



294 Through the Fire. 

The poet still hesitates, when Virgil reminds him 
that this wall of fire divides him from Beatrice : 



As at Thisbe's name the eye 
Of Pyramus was opened (when life ebbed 
Fast from his veins) and took one parting glance, 
While vermeil dyed the mulberry ; thus I turned 
To my sage guide, relenting, when I heard 
The name that springs forever in my breast. 

He shook his forehead ; and, " How long," he said, 
ce Linger we now ?" then smiled, as one would smile 
Upon a child that eyes the fruit and yields. 
Into the fire before me then he walked ; 
And Statius, who erewhile no little space 
Had parted us, he prayed to come behind. 

I would have cast me into molten glass 
To cool me, when I entered ; so intense 
Raged the conflagrant mass. The sire beloved, 
To comfort me, as he proceeded, still 
Of Beatrice talked. <s Her eyes," saith he, 
(e E'en now I seem to view." From the other side 
A voice, that sang, did guide us ; and the voice 
Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth, 
There where the path led upward. " Come," we heard, 

" Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds 
That hailed us from within a light, which shone 
So radiant, I could not endure the view. 
" The sun," it added, (C hastes : and evening comes. 
Delay not : ere the western sky is hung 
With blackness, strive ye for the pass." 

Issuing from this fire of purification, Dante and the 



Leah. 295 

two other poets continue their upward ascent until 
nightfall, when they stop to rest — 

As the goats, 
That late have skipped and wantoned rapidly 
Upon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'en 
Their supper on the herb, now silent lie 
And ruminate beneath the umbrage brown, 
While noonday rages ; and the goatherd leans 
Upon his staff^ and leaning watches them : 
And as the swain, that lodges out all night 
In quiet by his flock, lest beast of prey 
Disperse them : even so all three abode, 
I as a goat, and as the shepherds they, 
Close pent on either side by shelving rock. 

Thus lying and gazing on the stars, which shine 
above them with unusual glory, Dante falls asleep. In 
his dream, Leah, the symbol of active life, appears. 

About the hour, 
As I believe, when Venus from the east 
First lightened on the mountain, she whose orb 
Seems alway glowing with the fire of love, 
A lady young and beautiful, I dreamed, 
Was passing o'er a lea ; and, as she came, 
Methought I saw her ever and anon 
Bending to cull the flowers ; and thus she sang : 
€€ Know ye, whoever of my name would ask, 
That I am Leah ! for my brow to weave 
A garland, these fair hands unwearied ply. 
To please me at the crystal mirror, here 
I deck me. But my sister Rachel, she 



296 The Terrestrial Paradise. 

Before her elzss allots the livelers: clay. 
Her radiant eyes beholding, charmed no less, 
Than I with this delightful task. Her joy 
In contemplation, as in labor mine." 

As the dawn approaches, Dante awakes and finds his 
guide already risen. Virgil tells him that on this day 
he will find the delicious fruit which man so eagerly 
roams in quest of, and, thus encouraged, the poet soon 
reaches the summit of the mountain where lies the ter- 
restrial paradise. Here Virgil thus speaks to him : 

€C Both fires, my son, 

The temrtrel and eternal, thou hast see:: ; 

And art arrived, where of itself my ken 

No farther reaches. I, with skill and art, 

Thus sir have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take 

For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way, 

dVercome the straiter. Lo ! the sun, that darts 

His beam upon thy forehead : lo ! the herb, 

The arborets and flowers, which of itself 

This land rears forth rrsrase. Till these orient eyes 

With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste 

To succor thee, thou mayst or seat tjiee down, 

Or warder where thou wilt. Expect no more 

Sar.etitn e: voice or sign from me, 

Free of thy own arbitrament to choose, 

Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense 

Were hereerhrth errer. I invest thee then 

With e: ;v-:: -,;;£ mitre, srvereirr :'e: thyself.''" 

* Purgatorio, xxvii. 



Matilda. 2gj 

Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade 
With lively greenness the new-springing day 
Attempered, eager now to roam, and search 
Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank ; 
Along the champaign leisurely my way 
Pursuing o'er the ground, that on all sides 
Delicious odor breathed. A pleasant air, 
That intermitted never, never veered, 
Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind 
Of softest influence : at which the sprays, 
Obedient all, leaned, trembling, to that part 
Where first the holy mountain casts his shade ; 
Yet were not so disordered, but that still 
Upon their top the feathered quiristers 
Applied their wonted art, and with full joy 
Welcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrill 
Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays 
Kept tenor; even as from branch to branch, 
Along the piny forests on the shore 
Of Chiassi, rolls the gathering melody, 
When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed 
The dripping south. 

Approaching a brooklet, whose crystal waters wind 
through the May-bloom and the grass, in the perpetual 
shadow of the forest, he beholds Matilda, the symbol 
of the Christian doctrine — 

A lady all alone, who, singing, went, 

And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way 

Was all o'er painted. ' c Lady beautiful ! 

Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart, 

Are worthy of our trust) with love's own beam 

Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I framed; 



298 Matilda. 

ee Ah ! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend 
Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song. 
Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks, 
I call to mind where wandered and how looked 
Proserpine, in that season, when her child 
The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring. " 

As when a lady, turning in the dance, 
Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce 
One step before the other to the ground ; 
Over the yellow and vermilion flowers 
Thus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden-like, 
Veiling her sober eyes ; and came so near, 
That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound. 
Arriving where the limpid waters now 
Laved the green sward, her eyes she deigned to raise, 
That shot such splendor on me, as I ween 
Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son 
Had sped his keenest weapons to her heart. 
Upon the opposite bank she stood and smiled ; , 
As through her graceful fingers shifted still 
The intermingling dyes, which without seed 
That lofty land unbosoms. 

Matilda informs him that she has come hither to~ 
answer all his doubts. She explains to him that this 
mountain, once the dwelling of guiltless man, rises so 
high towards heaven, that the contending elements 
never disturb it ; the circumambient air still circles 
there with its first impulse ; the plants impregnate with 
their efficacy the voyaging breeze, whose subtile plume 
wafts it abroad to other climes, producing many a tree 
of various virtue ; the stream springs not from vapor 



A Vision. 299 

that the cold converts, but issues from a fountain solid, 
undecaying, and sure, by the Omnific Will feeding all 
with full supply. On one side, called Lethe, it has the 
power to take away all remembrance of offences ; on 
the other, called Eunoe, in flavor exceeding that of 
all things else, it brings back remembrance of good 
deeds done ; and both must be tasted before its power 
is felt.* 

Matilda now, turning towards the poet, cries : — 

" My brother ! look and hearken !" 
And lo ! a sudden lustre ran across 
Through the great forest on all parts, so bright, 
I doubted whether lightning were abroad ; 
But that, expiring ever in the spleen 
That doth unfold it, and this during still, 
And waxing still in splendor, made me question 
What it might be : and a sweet melody 
Ran through the luminous air. Then did I chide, 
With warrantable zeal, the hardihood 
Of our first parent ; for that there, where earth 
Stood in obedience to the heavens, she only, 
Woman, the creature of an hour, endured not 
Restraint of any veil, which had she borne 
Devoutly, joys, ineffable as these, 
Had from the first, and long time since, been mine. 

While, through that wilderness of primy sweets 
That never fade, suspense I walked, and yet 
Expectant of beatitude more high ; 
Before us, like a blazing fire, the air 

* Purgatorio, xxviii. 



300 A Vision. 

Under the green boughs glowed; and, for a song, 
Distinct the sound of melody was heard 

Onward a space, what seemed seven trees of gold 
The intervening distance to mine eye 
Falsely presented ; bur, when I was come 
So near them, that no lineament was lost 
Of those, with which a doubtful object, seen 
Remotely, plays on the misdeeming sense ; 
Then did the faculty, that ministers 
Discourse to reason, these for tapers of gold 
Distinguish ; and P the singing trace the sound 
"Hosanna." Above, their beauteous garniture 
Flamed with more ample lustre, than the moon 
Through cloudless sky at midnight, in her noon. 

I turned me, full of wonder, to my guide ; 
And he did answer with a countenance 
Charged with no less amazement : whence my view- 
Reverted to those lofty things, which came 
So slowly moving towards us, that the bride 
V\ ouid have outstripped them on her bridal day. 

The vision described in this and in the following 
cantos contains the fundamental ideas of the poem, and 
fully unfolds its plot and scope. The tapers of gold 
typify the seven gifts of the Holv Spirit : wisdom, intel- 
lect, science, prudence, courage, pietv, and the fear of 
God. Thev are represented as moving slowly towards 
the poet, showing that these gifts can only be acquired 
through the slow process of moral education. The 
luminous streamers which the golden tapers leave be- 
hind are emblematic of the intellectual illumina: 
bestowed on man in the accomplishment of his destiny. 



The Pageant of the Church. 301 

The elders represent the twenty-four prophets, whose 
office was to transmit the divine light to humanity ; 
and the four animals the four Evangelists, who com- 
municated to it the doctrine of Christian truth and 
hope. The chariot represents the Church of God, its 
two wheels signifying the Old and the New Testa- 
ment ; the Gryphon, half eagle and half lion, is the sym- 
bol of Christ in His twofold nature ; and the nymphs 
personify the Christian and moral virtues. The two 
old men who attend the car are St. Luke and St. Paul, 
followed by the great doctors, St. Augustine, St. Greg- 
ory, St. Jerome, St. Ambrose, and St. Bernard. The 
poet thus describes the sublime pageant of the Church, 
preceded by the golden tapers : — 

I straightway marked a tribe behind them walk, 
As if attendant on their leaders, clothed 
With raiment of such whiteness, as on earth 
Was never. On my left, the watery gleam 
Borrowed, and gave me back, when there I looked, 
As in a mirror, my left side portrayed. 

When I had chosen on the river's edge 
Such station, that the distance of the stream 
Alone did separate me ; there I stayed 
My steps for clearer prospect, and beheld 
The flames go onward, leaving, as they went, 
The air behind them painted as with trail 
Of liveliest pencils ; so distinct were marked 
All those seven listed colors, whence the sun 
Maketh his bow, and Cynthia her zone. 
These streaming gonfalons did flow beyond 
27 



302 Hhe Pageant of the Church. 

My vision ; and ten paces, as I guess, 
Parted the outermost. Beneath a sky- 
So beautiful, came four-and-twenty elders 
By two and two, with flower-de-luces crowned. 
All sang one song : " Blessed be thou among 
The daughters of Adam ! and thy loveliness 
Blessed forever." After that the flowers 
And the fresh herblets on the opposite brink 
Were free from that elected race ; as light 
In heaven doth* second light, came after them 
Four animals, each crowned with verdurous leaf. 
With six wings each was plumed ; the plumage full 
Of eyes ; and the eyes of Argus would be such 
Were they endued with life. Reader ! more rhymes 
I will not waste in shadowing forth their form ; 
For other need so straitens, that in this 
I may not give my bounty room. But read 
Ezekiel ; for he paints them, from the north 
How he beheld them come by Chebar's flood, 
In whirlwind, cloud, and fire ; and even such 
As thou shalt find them charactered by him, 
Here were they ; save as to the pennons ; there, 
From him departing, John accords with me. 

The space, surrounded by the four, enclosed 
A car triumphal : on two wheels it came, 
Drawn at a Gryphon's neck ; and he above 
Stretched either wing uplifted, 'tween the midst 
And the three listed hues, on each side, three; 
So that the wings did cleave or injure none ; 
And out of sight they rose. The members, far 
As he was bird, were golden ; white the rest, 
With vermeil interveined. So beautiful 
A car, in Rome, ne'er graced Augustus' pomp, 



The Pageant of the Church. 303 

Or Africanus' : e'en the sun's itself 

Were poor to this; that chariot of the sun, 

Erroneous, which in blazing ruin fell 

At Tellus' prayer devout, by the just doom 

Mysterious of all-seeing Jove. Three nymphs 

At the right wheel came circling in smooth dance : 

The one so ruddy, that her form had scarce 

Been known within a furnace of clear flame ; 

The next did look, as if the flesh and bones 

Were emerald ; snow new-fallen seemed the third. 

Now seemed the white to lead, the ruddy now ; 

And from her song who led, the others took 

Their measure, swift or slow. At the other wheel, 

A band quaternion, each in purple clad, 

Advanced with festal step, as, of them, one 

The rest conducted; one, upon whose front 

Three eyes were seen. In rear of all this group, 

Two old men I beheld, dissimilar 

In raiment, but in port and gesture like, 

Solid and mainly grave ; of whom, the one 

Did show himself some favored counsellor 

Of the great Coan ; him, whom Nature made 

To serve the costliest creature of her tribe : 

His fellow marked an opposite intent ; 

Bearing a sword, whose glitterance and keen edge, 

E'en as I viewed it with the flood between, 

Appalled me. Next, four others I beheld, 

Of humble seeming : and, behind them all, 

One single old man, sleeping as he came, 

With a shrewd visage. And these seven, each 

Like the first troop were habited ; but wore 

No braid of lilies on their temples wreathed. 

Rather, with roses and each vermeil flower, 



304 „ T//c? Apparition of Beatrice. 

A sight, but little distant, might have sworn, 
That they were all on fire above their brow. 

When as the car was o'er against me, straight 
Was heard a thundering, at whose voice it seemed 

The chosen multitude were stayed; for there, 
With the first ensigns, made they solemn halt.* 

The seven candlesticks of gold, shedding the polar 
light of heaven, now stand firmly fixed. Forthwith 
the saintly tribe between them and the Grvphon turn to 
the car as to their rest ; and one of them thrice chants 
a hvmn to Beatrice, while the others take up the song. 

At the last audit, so 
The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each 
Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh; 
As, on the sacred litter, at the voice 
Authoritative of that elder, sprang 
A hundred ministers and messengers 
Of life eternal. f * Blessed thou, who comest !" 
And, " Oh!" they cried, "from full hands scatter ye 
Unwithering lilies :" and, so saying, cast 
Flowers overhead and round them on all sides. 

I have beheld, ere now, at break of day, 
The eastern clime all roseate ; and the sky 
Opposed, one deep and beautiful serene ; 
And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists 
Attempered, at his rising, that the eye 
Long while endured the sight : thus, in a cloud 
Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose, 
And down within and outside of the car 
Fell showering, in white veil, with olive wreathed, 

* Pur~ato:io, xxix. 



The Apparition of Beatrice. 305 

A virgin in my view appeared, beneath 

Green mantle, robed in hue of living flame : 

And o'er my spirit, that so long a time 

Had from her presence felt no shuddering dread, 

Albeit mine eyes discerned her not, there moved 

A hidden virtue from her, at whose touch 

The power of ancient love was strong within me. 

No sooner on my vision streaming, smote 
The heavenly influence, which years past and e'en 
In childhood thrilled me, than towards Virgil I 
Turned me leftward ; panting like a babe 
That flees for refuge to his mother's breast, 
If aught have terrified or worked him woe ; 
And would have cried : " There is no dram of blood 
That doth not quiver in me. The old flame 
Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire." 
But Virgil had bereaved us of himself; 
Virgil, my best-loved father, Virgil, he 
To whom I gave me up for safety; nor 
All our prime mother lost, availed to save 
My undewed cheeks from blur of soiling tears. 

" Dante ! weep not, that Virgil leaves thee ; nay, 
Weep thou not yet : behooves thee feel the edge 
Of other sword; and thou shalt weep for that." 

As to the prow or stern, some admiral 
Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew, 
When mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof; 
Thus, on the left side of the car, I saw 
(Turning me at the sound of mine own name, 
Which here I am compelled to register) 
The virgin stationed, who before appeared 
Veiled in that festive shower angelical. 
Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes, 
27* 



306 Hhe Poet Rebuked. 

Though from her brow the veil descending, bound 

With foliage of Minerva, suffered not 

That I beheld her clearly : then with act 

Full royal, still insulting o'er her thrall, 

Added, as one who, speaking, keepeth back 

The bitterest saying, to conclude the speech : 

" Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I am 

Beatrice. What ! and hast thou deigned at last 

Approach the mountain ? Knewest not, O man ! 

Thy happiness is here ?" Down fell mine eyes 

On the clear fount; but there, myself espying, 

Recoiled, and sought the greensward ; such a weight 

Of shame was on my forehead. With a mien 

Of that stern majesty, which doth surround 

A mother's presence to her awe-struck child, 

She looked ; a flavor of such bitterness 

Was mingled in her pity. There her words 

Brake off; and suddenly the angels sang, 

<c In thee, O gracious Lord ! my hope hath been :" 

But went no further than, " Thou, Lord ! hast set 

My feet in ample room." As snow that lies, 

Amidst the living rafters on the back 

Of Italy, congealed, when drifted high 

And closely piled by rough Sclavonian blasts ; 

Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls, 

And straightway melting it distils away, 

Like a fire-wasted taper : thus was I, 

Without a sigh or tear, or ever these 

Did sing, that, with the chiming of heaven's sphere, 

Still in their warbling chime : but when the strain 

Of dulcet symphony expressed for me 

Their soft compassion, more than could the words, 

cc Virgin ! why so consumest him ?" then, the ice, 



The Poet Rebuked. 307 

Congealed about my bosom, turned itself 
To spirit and water ; and with anguish forth 
Gushed, through the lips and eyelids, from the heart. 

Upon the chariot's same edge still she stood, 
Immovable ; and thus addressed her words 
To those bright semblances with pity touched : 
cl Ye in the eternal day your vigils keep ; 
So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth, 
Conveys from you a single step, in all 
The goings on of time; thence, with more heed 
I shape mine answer, for his ear intended, 
Who there stands weeping ; that the sorrow now 
May equal the transgression. Not alone 
Through operation of the mighty orbs, 
That mark each seed to some predestined aim, 
As with aspect or fortunate or ill, 
The constellations meet; but through benign 
Largess of heavenly graces, which rain down 
From such a height as mocks our vision, this man 
Was, in the freshness of his being, such, 
So gifted virtually, that in him 
All better habits wondrously had thrived. 
The more of kindly strength is in the soil, 
So much doth evil seed and lack of culture 
Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness. 
These looks sometime upheld him ; for I showed 
My youthful eyes, and led him by their light 
In upright walking. Soon as I had reached 
The threshold of my second age, and changed 
My mortal for immortal ; then he left me, 
And gave himself to others. When from flesh 
To spirit I had risen, and increase 
Of beauty and of virtue circled me, 



308 The Poet Rebuked. 

I was less dear to him, and valued less. 

His steps were turned into deceitful ways, 

Following false images of good, that make 

No promise perfect. Nor availed me aught 

To sue for inspirations, with the which, 

I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise, 

Did call him back ; of them, so little recked him. 

Such depth he fell, that all device was short 

Of his preserving, save that he should view 

The children of perdition. To this end 

I visited the purlieus of the dead : 

And one, who hath conducted him thus high, 

Received my supplications, urged with weeping. 

It were a breaking of God's high decree, 

If Lethe should be passed and such food tasted 

Without the cost of some repenting tear.* 

" O thou!" her words she thus without delay 
Resuming, turned their point on me, to whom 
They, with but lateral edge, seemed harsh before : 
" Say thou, who stand'st beyond the holy stream, 
If this be true. A charge, so grievous, needs 
Thine own avowal." On my faculty 
Such strange amazement hung, the voice expired 
Imperfect, ere its organs gave it birth. 

A little space refraining, then she spake : 
t€ What dost thou muse on r Answer me. The wave 
On thy remembrances of evil yet 
Hath done no injury. " A mingled sense 
Of fear and of confusion, from my lips 
Did such a " Yea" produce, as needed help 
Of vision to interpret. As when breaks, 
In act to be discharged, a cross-bow bent 

* Purgatorio, xxx. 



The Poet Rebuked. 309 

Beyond its pitch, both nerve and bow o'erstretched ; 

The flagging weapon feebly hits the mark : 

Thus, tears and sighs forth gushing, did I burst 

Beneath the heavy load : and thus my voice 

Was slackened on its way. She straight began : 

fe When my desire invited thee to love 

The good, which sets a bound to our aspirings; 

What bar of thwarting foss or linked chain 

Did meet thee, that thou so shouldst quit the hope 

Of farther progress ? or what bait of ease, 

Or promise of allurement, led thee on 

Elsewhere, that thou elsewhere shouldst rather wait ?" 

A bitter sigh I drew, then scarce found voice 
To answer ; hardly to these sounds my lips 
Gave utterance, wailing : " Thy fair looks withdrawn, 
Things present, with deceitful pleasures, turned 
My steps aside." She answering spake : " Hadst thou 
Been silent, or denied what thou avow'st, 
Thou hadst not hid thy sin the more ; such eye 
Observes it. But whene'er the sinner's cheek 
Breaks forth into the precious-streaming tears 
Of self-accusing, in our court the wheel 
Of justice doth run counter to the edge. 
Howe'er, that thou mayst profit by thy shame 
For errors past, and that henceforth more strength 
May arm thee, when thou hear'st the Siren-voice ; 
Lay thou aside the motive to this grief^ 
And lend attentive ear, while I unfold 
How opposite a way my buried flesh 
Should have impelled thee. Never didst thou spy, 
In art or nature, aught so passing sweet, 
As were the limbs that in their beauteous frame 
Enclosed me, and are scattered now in dust. 



31 o The Poet Rebuked. 

If sweetest thing thus failed thee with my death, 

What afterward, of mortal, should thy wish 

Have tempted ? When thou first hadst felt the dart 

Of perishable things, in my departing 

For better realms, thy wing thou shouldst have pruned 

To follow me ; and never stooped again, 

To 'bide a second blow, for a slight girl, 

Or other gaud as transient and as vain. 

The new and inexperienced 'bird awaits 

Twice, it may be, or thrice, the" fowler's aim'"; 

But in the sight of one whose plumes are full, 

In vain the net is spread, the arrow winged." 

I stood, as children silent and ashamed 
Stand, listening, with their eyes upon the earth, 
Acknowledging their fault, and self-condemned ; 
And she resumed : " If but to hear thus pains thee, 
Raise thou thy beard, and lo ! what sight shall do." 

With less reluctance yields a sturdy holm, 
Rent from its fibres by a blast, that blows 
From off the pole, or from Iarbas' land, 
Than I at her behest my visage raised : 
And thus the face denoting by the beard, 
I marked the secret sting her words conveyed. 

No sooner lifted I mine aspect up, 
, Than I perceived those primal creatures cease 
Their flowery sprinkling ; and mine eyes beheld 
(Yet unassured and wavering in their view) 
Beatrice ; she who towards the mystic shape, 
That joins two natures in one form, had turned : 
And even under shadow of her veil, 
And parted by the verdant rill that floweJ. 
Between, in loveliness she seemed as much 
Her former self surpassing, as on earth 



■ 



T'he Vision Continues. 311 

All others she surpassed. Remorseful goads 

Shot sudden through me. Each thing else, the more 

Its love had late beguiled me, now the more 

Was loathsome. On my heart so keenly smote 

The bitter consciousness, that on the ground 

O'erpowered I fell : and what my state was then, 

She knows, who was the cause. When now my strength 

Flowed back, returning outward from the heart, 

The lady, whom alone I first had seen, 

I found above me. " Loose me not," she cried : 

'"Loose not thy hold :" and lo ! had dragged me high 

As to my neck into the stream ; while she, 

Still as she drew me after, swept along, 

Swift as a shuttle, bounding o'er the wave. 

The blessed shore approaching, then was heard 
So sweetly, <c Tu asperges me," that I, 
May not remember, much less tell the sound. 

The beauteous dame, her arms expanding, clasped 
My temples, and immerged me where 'twas fit 
The wave should drench me : and, thence raising up, 
Within the fourfold dance of lovely nymphs 
Presented me so laved ; and with their arm 
They each did cover me. " Here are we nymphs, 
And in the heaven are stars. Or ever earth 
Was visited of Beatrice, we, 
Appointed for her handmaids, tended on her. 
We to her eyes will lead thee : but the light 
Of gladness, that is in them, well to scan, 
Those yonder three, of deeper ken than ours, 
Thy sight shall quicken. " Thus began their song : 
And then they led me to the Gryphon's breast, 
Where, turned toward us, Beatrice stood. 
" Spare not thy vision. We have stationed thee 



312 Beatrice Unveiled. 

Before the emeralds, whence love, ere while, 

Hath drawn his weapons on thee." As they spake, 

A thousand fervent wishes riveted 

Mine eyes upon her beaming eyes, that stood, 

Still fixed toward the Gryphon, motionless. 

As the sun strikes a mirror, even thus 

Within those orbs the twifold being shone ; 

Forever varying, in one figure now 

Reflected, now in other. Reader ! muse 

How wondrous in my sight it seemed, to mark 

A thing, albeit steadfast in itself, 

Yet in its imaged semblance mutable. 

Full of amaze, and joyous, while my soul 
Fed on the viand, whereof still desire 
Grows with satiety ; the other three, 
With gesture that declared a loftier line, 
Advanced : to their own carol, on they came 
Dancing, in festive ring angelical. 

" Turn, Beatrice !" was their song : " Oh ! turn 
Thy saintly sight on this thy faithful one, 
Who, to behold thee, many a wearisome pace 
Hath measured. Gracious at our prayer, vouchsafe 
Unveil to him thy cheeks ; that he may mark 
Thy second beauty, now concealed. " O splendor ! 
O sacred light eternal ! who is he, 
So pale with musing in Pierian shades, 
Or with that fount so lavishly imbued, 
Whose spirit should not fail him in the essay 
To represent thee such as thou didst seem, 
When under cope of the still-chiming heaven 
Thou gavest to open air thy charms revealed f* 

* Purgatorio, xxxi. 



tfhe Tra? of Humanity. 313 

Dante remains absorbed in the contemplation of 
Beatrice, but the sacred virgins warn him not to gaze 
on her too fixedly. Now the glorious pageant moves 
on to the sound of angelic music, and a new vision 
appears to the poet. 

As when, their bucklers for protection raised, 
A well-ranged troop, with portly banners curled, 
Wheel circling, ere the whole can change their ground ; 
E'en thus the goodly regiment of heaven, 
Proceeding, all did pass us, ere the car 
Had sloped his beam. Attendant at the wheels 
The damsels turned ; and on the Gryphon moved 
The sacred burden, with a pace so smooth, 
No feather on him trembled. The fair dame, 
Who through the wave had drawn me, 'companied 
By Statius and myself, pursued the wheel, 
Whose orbit, rolling, marked a lesser arch. 

The lofty tree which is here alluded to is symbolic 
of humanity, despoiled of leaves and flowers by the sin 
of our first parents. 

Through the high wood, now void (the more her blame 
Who by the serpent was beguiled), I passed, 
With step in cadence to the harmony 
Angelic. Onward had we moved, as far, 
Perchance, as arrow at three several flights 
Full winged had sped, when from her station down 
Descended Beatrice. With one voice 
All murmured " Adam ;" circling next a plant 
Despoiled of flowers and leaf, on every bough. 
Its tresses, spreading more as more they rose, 
Were such, as midst their forest wilds, for height* 
28 



314 ^ e Chariot and the ^ree. 

The Indians might have gazed at. " Blessed thou, 

Gryphon ! whose beak hath never plucked that tree 

Pleasant to taste : for hence the appetite 

Was warped to evil." Round the stately trunk 

Thus shouted forth the rest, to whom returned 

The animal twice-gendered : ' e Yea ! for so 

The generation of the just are saved." 

And turning to the chariot-pole, to foot 

He drew it of the widowed branch, and bound 

There, left unto the stock whereon it grew. 

As when large floods of radiance from above 
Stream, with that radiance mingled, which ascends 
Next after setting of the scaly sign, 
Our plants then burgein, and each wears anew 
His wonted colors, ere the sun have yoked 
Beneath another star his flamy steeds ; 
Thus putting forth a hue more faint than rose, 
And deeper than the violet, was renewed 
The plant, erewhile in all its branches bare. 
Unearthly was the hymn which then arose. 
I understood it not, nor to the end 
Endured the harmony. Had I the skill 
To pencil forth how closed the unpitying eyes, 
Slumbering, v/hen Syrinx warbled (eyes that paid 
So dearly for their watching), then like painter 
That with a model paints, I might design 
The manner of my falling into sleep. 
But feign who will the slumber cunningly, 
I pass it by to when I waked ; and tell, 
How suddenly a flash of splendor rent 
The curtain of my sleep, and one cries out, 
" Arise : what dost thou ?" As the chosen three, 
On Tabor's mount, admitted to behold 
The blossoming of that fair tree, whose fruit 



Hhe History of the Church. 315 

Is coveted of angels, and doth make 

Perpetual feast in heaven ; to themselves 

Returning, at the word whence deeper sleeps 

Were broken, they their tribe diminished saw ; 

Both Moses and Elias gone, and changed 

The stole their master wore ; thus to myself 

Returning, over me beheld I stand 

The piteous one, who, cross the stream, had brought 

My steps. " And where," all doubting, I exclaimed, 

" Is Beatrice ?" — " See her," she replied, 

€€ Beneath the fresh leaf, seated on its root. 

Behold the associate choir, that circles her. 

The others, with a melody more sweet 

And more profound, journeying to higher realms, 

Upon the Gryphon tend. " If there her words 

Were closed, I know not ; but mine eyes had now 

Ta'en view of her, by whom all other thoughts 

Were barred admittance. On the very ground 

Alone she sat, as she had there been left 

A guard upon the wain, which I beheld 

Bound to the twiform beast. The seven nymphs 

Did make themselves a cloister round about her ; 

And in their hands upheld those lights secure 

From blast Septentrion and the gusty south. 

The history of the Church is now foreshadowed. 
The first descent of the eagle symbolizes the Roman 
emperors by whom it was preserved ; the second, the 
coming of Constantine and other monarchs, who, by 
endowing it with wealth and power, transformed it into 
a monster. The fox introduced is emblematic of the 
frauds through which the Papal Church extended its 
dominions ; the dragon is Satan, who inspired the popes 



316 The History of the Church) 

with ambition and covetousness ; the harlot, the papacy 
itself ; and the giant, the monarchs of France, the allies 
of the papacy, who, to pervert the holy see more thor- 
oughly, removed it to Avignon, beyond the influence of 
Italian civilization. 

' ' A little while thou shalt be forester here ; 
And citizen shalt be, forever with me, 
Of that true Rome, wherein Christ dwells a Roman. 
To profit the misguided world, keep now 
Thine eyes upon the car; and what thou seest, 
Take heed thou write, returning to that place." 

Thus Beatrice : at whose feet inclined, 
Devout, at her behest, my thought and eyes, 
I, as she bade, directed. Never fire, 
With so swift motion, forth a stormy cloud 
Leaped downward from the welkin's farthest bound, 
As I beheld the bird of Jove descend 
Down through the tree ; and, as he rushed, the rind . 
Disparting crush beneath him ; buds much more, 
And leaflets. On the car, with all his might 
He struck ; whence, staggering, like a ship it reeled, 
At random driven, to starboard now, o'ercome, 
And now to larboard, by the vaulting waves. 

Next, springing up into the chariot's womb, 
A fox I saw, with hunger seeming pined 
Of all good food. But, for his ugly sins 
The saintly maid rebuking him, away 
Scampering he turned, fast as his hide-bound corpse 
Would bear him. Next, from whence before he came 
I saw the eagle dart into the hull 
O' the car, and leave it with his feathers lined : 
And then a voice, like that which issues forth 



*The History of the Church. 317 

From heart with sorrow rived, did issue forth 

From heaven, and, " O poor bark of mine !" it cried, 

" How badly art thou freighted." Then it seemed 

That the earth opened, between either wheel ; 

And I beheld a dragon issue thence, 

That through the chariot fixed his forked train ; 

And, like a wasp, that draggeth back the sting, 

So drawing forth his baleful train, he dragged 

Part of the bottom forth ; and went his way 

Exulting. What remained, as lively turf 

With green herb, so did clothe itself with plumes, 

Which haply had, with purpose chaste and kind, 

Been offered ; and therewith were clothed the wheels, 

Both one and other, and the beam, so quickly, 

A sigh were not breathed sooner. Thus transformed, 

The holy structure, through its several parts, 

Did put forth heads ; three on the beam, and one 

On every side : the first like oxen horned ; 

But with a single horn upon their front, 

The four. Like monster, sight hath never seen. 

O'er it methought there sat, secure as rock 

On mountain's lofty top, a shameless whore, 

Whose ken roved loosely round her. At her side, 

As 'twere that none might bear her off, I saw 

A giant stand ; and ever and anon 

They mingled kisses. But, her lustful eyes 

Chancing on me to wander, that fell minion 

Scourged her from head to foot all o'er ; then fall 

Of jealousy, and fierce with rage, unloosed 

The monster, and dragged on, so far across 

The forest, that from me its shades alone 

Shielded the harlot and the new-formed brute.* 

* Purgatorio, xxxii. 
28* 



318 Beatrice s Advice* 

" The heathen, Lord ! are come :" responsive thus, 
The trinal now, and now the virgin band 
Quaternion, their sweet psalmody began, 
Weeping; and Beatrice listened, sad 
And sighing, to the song, in such a mood, 
That Mary, as she stood beside the cress, 
Vv as scarce more changed. But when they gave her place 
To speak, then, risen upright on her feet, 
She, with a color glowing bright as hre, 
Did answer : " Yet a little while, and ye 
Shall see me not ; and, my beloved sisters ! 
Again a little while, and ye shall see me." 

Before her then she marshalled all the seven; 
And, beckoning only, motioned me, the dame, 
And that remaining sage, to follow her. 

So on site passed: and had not set, I ween, 
Her tenth sten to the ground, when, with mine eyes, 
Her eyes encountered ; and, with visage mild, 
(l So mend thy pace/'' she cried, (( that if my words 
Address thee, thou mayst still be aptly placed 
To hear them."' Seen as duly to her side 
I now had hastened : " Brother l n she began, 
" Why makes: thou no attempt at questioning, 
As thus we walk t:gether:' ; Like to these 
Who, speaking with too reverent an awe 
Be fere their betters, draw not forth the voice 
Alive unto their lips, befell me then 
That I in sounds imperfect thus began : 
< f Lady ! what I have need oh that :/ ft: 

And what will suit my need." She answering thus : 
" Of fear fulness and shame, I will that thou 
Henceforth de rid thee; that thru sneak no more, 
As one who dreams." 



Beatrice's Prophecy. 



3 J 9 



Here Beatrice foretells the advent of a messenger 
from God, symbolized in the number five hundred, 
five, and ten, which, written in Roman characters, 
gives the word DVX, that is, a military leader, who 
will slay the foul one, and the giant her accomplice. 
She charges the poet to repeat to the world her 
prophecy, and to proclaim that whoever shall rob or 
pluck the tree of humanity will make himself guilty 
before God, who for his own use, and not for that of 
the Church, or of any other institution, created and 

hallowed it. 

" Thus far be taught of me : 
The vessel which thou saw'st the serpent break, 
Was, and is not : let him, who hath the blame, 
Hope not to scare God's vengeance with a sop. 
Without an heir forever shall not be 
That eagle, he, who left the chariot plumed, 
Which monster made it first and next a prey. 
Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the stars 
E'en now approaching, whose conjunction, free 
From all impediment and bar, brings on 
A season, in the which, one sent from God 
(Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out), 
That foul one, and the accomplice of her guilt, 
The giant, both shall slay. And if perchance 
My saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx, 
Fail to persuade thee (since like them it foils 
The intellect with blindness), yet ere long 
Events shall be the Naiads, that will solve 
This knotty riddle, and no damage light 
On flock or field. Take heed ; and as these words 
By me are uttered, teach them even so 



320 Beatrice's Advice. 

' To those who live that life, which is a race 
To death : and when thou writest them, keep in mind 
Not to conceal how thou hast seen the plant, 
That twice hath now been spoiled. This whoso robs, 
This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deed 
Sins against God, who for His use alone 
Creating hallowed it. For taste of this, 
In pain and in desire, five thousand years 
And upward, the first soul did yearn for him 
Who punished in himself the fatal gust. 

" Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this height, 
And summit thus inverted, of the plant, 
Without due cause : and were not vainer thoughts, 
As Elsa's numbing waters, to thy soul, 
And their fond pleasures had not dyed it dark 
As Pyramus the mulberry; thou hadst seen, 
In such momentous circumstance alone, 
God's equal justice morally implied 
In the forbidden tree. But since I mark thee, 
In understanding, hardened into stone, 
And, to that hardness, spotted too and stained, 
So that thine eye is dazzled at my word; 
I will, that, if not written, yet at least 
Painted thou take it in thee, for the cause, 
That one brings home his staff inwreathed with palm." 

I thus : " As wax by seal, that changeth not 
Its impress, now is stamped my brain by thee. 
But wherefore soars thy wished-for speech so high 
Beyond my sight, that loses it the more, 
The more it strains to reach it r" — cc To the end 
That thou mayst know," she answered straight, " the school 
That thou hast followed; and how far behind, 
When following my discourse, its learning halts : 






Lethe and Eunoe. 321 

And may st behold your art, from the divine 

As distant, as the disagreement is 

'Twixt earth and heaven's most high and rapturous orb." 

** I not remember," I replied, " that e'er 
I was estranged from thee ; nor for such fault 
Doth conscience chide me." Smiling she returned: 
€i If thou canst not remember, call to mind 
How lately thou hast drunk of Lethe's wave ; 
And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame, 
In that forgetfulness itself conclude 
Blame from thy alienated will incurred. 
From henceforth, verily, my words shall be 
As naked, as will suit them to appear 
In thy unpractised view." More sparkling now, 
And with retarded course, the sun possessed 
The circle of mid-day, that varies still 
As the aspect varies of each several clime ; 
When, as one sent in vaward of a troop 
For escort, pauses, if perchance he spy 
Vestige of somewhat strange and rare ; so paused 
The sevenfold band, arriving at the verge 
Of a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen, 
Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oft 
To overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff. 
And, where they stood, before them, as it seemed, 
I, Tigris and Euphrates both, beheld 
Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends, 
Linger at parting. " O enlightening beam ! • 
O glory of our kind ! beseech thee say 
What water this, which, from one source derived, 
Itself removes to distance from itself?" 

To such entreaty answer thus was made : 
« Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this." 



322 His Final Regeneration. 

And here, as one who clears himself of blame 
Imputed, the fair dame returned : (i Of me 
He this and more hath learned ; and I am safe 
That Lethe's water hath not hid it from him." 

And Beatrice : " Some more pressing care, 
That oft the memory 'reaves, perchance hath made 
His mind's eye dark. But lo, where Eunoe flows ! 
Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, revive 
His fainting virtue. '' As a courteous spirit, 
That proffers no excuses, but as soon 
As he hath token of another's will, 
Makes it his own ; when she had ta'en me, thus 
The lovely maiden moved her on, and called 
To Statius, with an air most lady-like : 
" Come thou with him." Were further space allowed, 
Then, Reader ! might I sing, though but in part, 
That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne'er 
Been sated. But, since all the leaves are fall, 
Appointed for this second strain, mine art 
With warning bridle checks me. I returned 
From the most holy wave, regenerate, 
E'en as new plants renewed with foliage new, 
Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars.* 

* Purgatorio, xxxiii. 



PARADISO. 

MAN, according to Dante, attains his perfection 
when, his intellectual and moral faculties hav- 
ing received their full development, he becomes pos- 
sessed of the supreme Good, to which his nature aspires. 
This possession, however, both in the present and the 
future life, is proportioned to the capacity of each 
individual soul to realize in itself the infinite Ideal. 
Thus led by Beatrice, the poet ascends to the heav- 
enly spheres, — the abodes of those spirits who have 
reached different degrees of perfection, approaching 
nearer and nearer to the highest point, where human 
nature reaches its full beatitude, and becomes identified 
with absolute truth, justice, and happiness, or the infi- 
nite Good. The Paradiso, the third Act of the Divina 
Commedia, represents the apotheosis of man, consum- 
mated in this union, in which the object of his individ- 
ual and social relations is accomplished, the wisdom 
of creation becomes manifest, and the perfection of 
nature, art, and society is attained. 

This final triumph is gained chiefly through knowl- 
edge, the foundation of all progress and civilization, 
the true golden ladder by which humanity ascends 
to the Empyrean, where its image appears, shining 



324 The Heavens. 

within the "three circles of equal measure and of dif- 
ferent hue, the symbol of the Divine nature, one and 
trine." In accordance with this view, Dante tells us, 
in the Convito, that bv the heavens he means the sci- 
ences, which he fancifully compares with the celestial 

1 spheres. He draws a parallel between the one and the 
other ; rinds analogies between the order of ideas and 
the order of the heavens ; and strives to show that 
grammar corresponds to the Moon, dialectics to Mer- 
cury, rhetoric to Venus, arithmetic to the Sun, music to 
Mars, geometry to Jupiter, astrology to Saturn, physics 
and metaphysics to the fixed stars, ethics to the Primum 
Mobile, and theology to the Empyrean. Deriving his 
symbols from the Arabians, he causes the spheres 
sciences) to be moved by intelligences which he dis- 
tributes hierarchically, according to certain qualities of 
the planets : the angels presiding over the movements of 
the Moon, the archangels over Mercury, the Thrones 
over Venus ; while the Sun, Mars, and Jupiter, are 
moved bv the Dominions, Virtues, and Principalities ; 
and the Powers, Cherubim, and Seraphim, impel the 
Heaven of the Fixed Stars, the Primum Mobile, and 
the Empyrean. Thus, as the Inferno and the Purga- 
torio properly consist each of nine circles, the Paradiso 

- is divided into nine spheres, encircled bv the Empy- 
rean, the heaven of the visible presence of God. The 
Earth lies immobile at the centre of the Universe : 
around it the celestial spheres move in circular and c 
centric orbits, which widen and move more swiftly as 



tfhe Structure of the Paradiso. 325 

they are nearer the Primum Mobile, the heaven which 
communicates its movement to the other globes through 
subordinate intelligences. 

The heavenly spheres, the abodes of the blessed 
spirits, are distributed in the following order: 1. The 
Moon, the nearest to the Earth, where dwell those 
who have broken their religious vows. 2. Mercury, 
the sphere of patriotic and active rulers. 3. Venus, 
the planet of lovers. 4. The Sun, the abode of philos- 
ophers and theologians. 5. Mars, the world of Chris- 
tian warriors. 6. Jupiter, containing the spirits of right- 
eous rulers. 7. Saturn, the heaven of contemplative 
minds. 8. Fixed Stars, where live in eternal blessed- 
ness the hosts who celebrate the triumph of Christ. 

9. Primum Mobile, the heaven of the Divine Glory. 

10. The Empyrean, the abode of the Visible Presence 
of God. To these spheres Dante ascends with Bea- 
trice, borne by the same force which causes them to 
revolve, and illumined by the light which, as they 
ascend, shines brighter and brighter from the eyes of 
his divine guide. 

The Paradiso thus opens : — 

His glory, by whose might all things are moved, 
Pierces the universe, and in one part 
Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less. In heaven, 
That largeliest of his light partakes, was I, 
Witness of things, which, to relate again, 
Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence ; 
For that, so near approaching its desire, 
29 



326 Beatrice Gazing on the Sun. 

Our intellect is to such depth absorbed, 
That memory cannot follow. Nathless all, 
That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm 
Could store, shall now be matter of my song. 

The aid of the Muses has hitherto sustained the 
poet ; but henceforth he requires the inspiration of 
Apollo himself, whom he thus invokes : — 

O power divine ! 
If thou to me of thine impart so much, 
That of that happy realm the shadowed form 
Traced in my thoughts I may set forth to view ; 
Thou shalt behold me of thy favored tree 
Come to the foot, and crown myself with leaves : 
For to that honor thou, and my high theme 
Will fit me. If but seldom, mighty Sire ! 
To grace his triumph, gathers thence a wreath 
Cassar, or bard (more shame for human wills 
Depraved), joy to the Delphic god must spring 
From the Peneian foliage, when one breast 
Is with such thirst inspired. From a small spark 
Great flame hath risen : after me, perchance, 
Others with better voice may pray, and gain, 
From the Cyrrhasan city, answer kind. 

Beatrice and Dante stand on the summit of the 
mountain of the Purgatorio : — 

I saw Beatrice turned, and on the sun 
Gazing, as never eagle fixed his ken. 
As from the first a second beam is wont 
To issue, and reflected upwards rise, 
Ev^n as 3. pilgrim be^t on his return ; 



^Towards the First Heaven. 



3 2 7 



So of her act, that through the eyesight passed 
Into my fancy, mine was formed ; and straight, 
Beyond our mortal wont, I fixed mine eyes 
Upon the sun. Much is allowed us there, 
That here exceeds our power ; thanks to the place 
Made for the dwelling of the human kind. 

I suffered it not long ; and yet so long, 
That I beheld it bickering sparks around, 
As iron that comes boiling from the fire. 
And suddenly upon the day appeared 
A day new-risen ; as he, who hath the power, 
Had with another sun bedecked the sky. 

Her eyes fast fixed on the eternal wheels, 
Beatrice stood unmoved ; and I with ken 
Fixed upon her, from upward gaze removed, 
At her aspect, such inwardly became 
As Glaucus, when he tasted of the herb 
That made him peer among the ocean gods : 
Words may not tell of that trans-human change ; 
And therefore let the example serve, though weak, 
For those whom grace hath better proof in store. 

If I were only what thou didst create, 
Then newly, Love ! by whom the heaven is ruled ; 
Thou know'st, who by thy light didst bear me up. 
When as the wheel which thou dost ever guide, 
Desired Spirit ! with its harmony, 
Tempered of thee and measured, charmed mine ear, 
Then seemed to me so much of heaven to blaze 
With the sun's flame, that rain or flood ne'er made 
A lake so broad. The newness of the sound, 
And that great light, inflamed me with desire, 
Keener than e'er was felt, to know their cause. 

In answer to his doubts, Beatrice — 



328 Love the Universal Laze. 

After utterance of a piteous sigh, 

She towards me bent her eyes, with such a look, 

As on her frenzied child a mother casts: 

Then thus began : " Among themselves all things 

Have order ; and from hence the form, which makes; 

The universe resemble God. In this 

The higher creatures see the printed steps 

Of that eternal worth, which is the end 

Whither the line is drawn.. All natures lean, 

In this their order, diversely : some more, 

Some less approaching to their primal source. 

Thus they to different havens are moved on 

Through the vast sea of being, and each one 

With instinct given, that bears it in its course : 

This to the lunar sphere directs the fire ; 

This moves the hearts of mortal animals ; 

This the brute earth together knits, and binds. 

Nor only creatures, void of intellect, 

Are aimed at by this bow ; but even those, 

That have intelligence and love, are pierced. 

That Providence, who so well orders all, 

With her own light makes ever calm the heaven, 

In which the substance, that hath greatest speed, 

Is turned : and thither now, as to our seat 

Predestined, we are carried by the force 

Of that strong cord, that never loses dart 

But at fair aim and glad. Yet is it true, 

That as, oft-times, but ill accords the form 

To the design of art, through sluggishness 

Of unreplying matter; so this course 

Is sometimes quitted by the creature, who 

Hath power, directed thus, to bend elsewhere : 

As from a cloud the fire is seen to fall, 



The Further Ascent. 329 

From its original impulse warped, to earth, 
By vicious fondness. Thou no more admire 
Thy soaring (if I rightly deem), than lapse 
Of torrent downwards from a mountain's height. 
There would in thee for wonder be more cause, 
If, free of hindrance, thou hadst stayed below, 
As living fire unmoved upon the earth." 
So said, she turned toward the heaven her face.* 

The poet thus distinguishes those who will not be 
able to follow him in his adventurous track, and those 
few who will : — 

All ye, who in small bark have following sailed, 
Eager to listen, on the adventurous track 
Of my proud keel, that singing cuts her way, 
Backward return with speed, and your own shores 
Revisit ; nor put out to open sea, 
Where, losing me, perchance ye may remain 
Bewildered in deep maze. The way I pass, 
Ne'er yet was run ; Minerva breathes the gale : 
Apollo guides me ; and another Nine, 
To my rapt sight, the arctic beams reveal. 
Ye other few who have outstretched the neck 
Timely for food of angels, on which here 
They live, yet never know satiety ; 
Through the deep brine ye fearless may put out 
Your vessel ; marking well the furrow broad 
Before you in the wave, that on both sides 
Equal returns — 

sfc j£ ^ * *K 

The increate perpetual thirst, that draws 
Toward the realm of God's own form, bore us 
* Paradiso, i. 



I>? 



330 "The Moon. 

Swift almost as the heaven ye behold. 

Beatrice upward gazed, and I on her ; 

And in such space as on the notch a dart 

Is placed, then loosened flies, I saw myself 

Arrived, where wondrous thing engaged my sight ; 

Whence she, to whom no care of mine was hid, 

Turning to me, with aspect glad as fair, 

Bespake me : " Gratefully direct thy mind 

To God, through whom to this first star we come." 

They now enter the moon. 

Meseemed as if a cloud had covered us, 
Translucent, solid, firm, and polished bright, 
Like adamant, which the sun's beam had smit. 
Within itself the ever-during pearl 
Received us ; as the wave a ray of light 
Receives, and rests unbroken. 

Dante asks of Beatrice the cause of the dark spots 
on the moon, which he refers to different degrees of 
density and rarity in that satellite, and to the light 
of the sun, thus differently distributed among its parts. 
This theory, however, which comes nearer to the 
conclusion of modern science, is refuted at length 
by Beatrice, who introduces the erroneous notions 
of astronomy then prevailing, to explain that pheno- 
menon.* 

The moon, the lowest sphere of the Paradise, is 
inhabited by the spirits of those who have violated 
their religious vows. 

* Paradiso, ii. 



Fie car da Donati. 331 

As through translucent and smooth glass, or wave 
Clear and unmoved, and flowing not so deep 
As that its bed is dark, the shape returns 
So faint of our impictured lineaments, 
That, on white forehead set, a pearl as strong 
Comes to the eye ; such saw I many a face, 
All stretched to speak ; from whence I straight conceived, 
Delusion opposite to that, which raised, 
Between the man and fountain, amorous flame. 

Sudden, as I perceived them, deeming these 
Reflected semblances, to see of whom 
They were, I turned mine eyes, and nothing saw ; 
Then turned them back, directed on the light 
Of my sweet guide, who, smiling, shot forth beams 
From her celestial eyes. " Wonder not thou," 
She cried, c ' at this my smiling, when I see 
Thy childish judgment; since not yet on truth 
It rests the foot, but, as it still is wont, 
Makes thee fall back in unsound vacancy. 
True substances are these, which thou behold'st, 
Hither through failure of their vow exiled. 
But speak thou with them ; listen, and believe, 
That the true light, which fills them with desire, 
Permits not from its beams their feet to stray." 

Among the spirits who seem most eager to converse, 
the poet recognizes his friend Piccarda, the sister of 
Forese and Corso Donati, a relative of his wife. Pic- 
carda had taken refuge in the convent of St. Clare, and 
become a nun, to avoid a marriage contracted for her 
against her will by her family. Her brother Corso, 
enraged at her escape, aided by a band of hired ruffians, 
stormed the convent, carried off his sister by force, and 



332 Piccarda Donati. 

obliged her to marry the man to whom he had promised 
her hand. She died soon after. The meeting and the 
recognition of Piccarda are thus described : — 

Straight to the shadow, which for converse seemed 
Most earnest, I addressed me ; and began, 
As one by over-eagerness perplexed : 
" O spirit, born for joy ! who in the rays 
Of life eternal, of that sweetness know'st 
The flavor, which, not tasted, passes far 
All apprehension ; me it well would please, 
If thou wouldst tell me of thy name, and this 
Your station here." Whence she with kindness prompt, 
And eyes glistering with smiles : " Our charity, 
To any wish by justice introduced, 
Bars not the door ; no more than she above, 
Who would have all her court be like herself. 
I was a virgin sister in the earth : 
And if thy mind observe me well, this form, 
With such addition graced of loveliness, 
Will not conceal me long ; but thou wilt know 
Piccarda, in the tardiest sphere thus placed, 
Here mid these other blessed also blest, 
Our hearts, whose high affections burn alone 
With pleasure from the Holy Spirit conceived, 
Admitted to his order, dwell in joy. 
And this condition, which appears so low, 
Is for this cause assigned us, that our vows 
Were, in some part, neglected and made void." 

Whence I to her replied : " Something divine 
Beams in your countenances wondrous fair ; 
From former knowledge quite transmuting you. 
Therefore to recollect was I so slow. 



Piccarda Donatu 333 

But what thou sayst hath to my memory 
Given now such aid, that to retrace your forms 
Is easier. Yet inform me, ye, who here 
Are happy ; long ye for a higher place, 
More to behold, and more in love to dwell ?" 

She with those other spirits gently smiled; 
Then answered with such gladness, that- she seemed 
With love's first flame to glow : " Brother ! our will 
Is, in composure, settled by the power 
Of charity, who makes us will alone 
What we possess, and naught beyond desire : 
If we should wish to be exalted more, 
Then must our wishes jar with the high will 
Of Him, who sets us here ; which in these orbs 
Thou wilt confess not possible, if here 
To be in charity must needs befall, 
And if her nature well thou contemplate. 
Rather it is inherent in this state 
Of blessedness, to keep ourselves within 
The divine will, by which our wills with His 
Are one. So that as we, from step to step, 
Are placed throughout this kingdom, pleases all, 
Even as our King, who in us plants His will ; 
And in His will is our tranquillity : 
It is the mighty ocean, whither tends 
Whatever it creates and nature makes." 

Then saw I clearly how each spot in heaven 
Is Paradise, though with like gracious dew 
The supreme virtue shower not over all. 

She then thus relates to him how she had entered the 
convent, and how she was taken away. She also points 
out Constance, daughter of Ruggieri, King of Sicily, 



334 F- D< :...'■. 

who was also taken bv force from a monastery, married 
to the Emperor Henry VI., and afterwards became the 
mother ot Frederick II. 

"Exalted worth and perfectness o: life 
The Lady higher up mshrine in heaven, 
By whose pure laws upon your nether earth 
The robe and yen t'.tey wm: ; -; mm intent. 
That e'en till death they may keep watch, or sleep,, 
With their great bridegroom, who accent each vow, 
Which to his gracious pleasure love conforms. 
I from the world, to follow her, when yourm 
Escaped; and, in her vesture mantling me, 
Made promise of the way her sect enjoins. 
Thereafter men, for ill than good more apt, 
Forth s:\ ;mm me fmm th: mm.mmt clmster's pale, 
God knows how, after that, my life was framed. 
This other splendid shmm. which timm beimld'st 
At my right side, burning with all the light 
O f this our orb, what of myself I tell 
May to herself apply. From her, like me 
A sister, with like violence were torn 
The saintly folds, that shaded her fair brows. 
E'en when she to the world again was brought 
In spite of her own will and better wont, 
Yet not for that the bosom's inward veil 
Did she renounce. This is the luminary 
Of mighty Constance, wh: :mm that had mm:, 
Which blew the second over Suabia's realm, 
That power produced, which was the third and last." 

She ceased from farther talk, and then began 
"Aye Maria'' singing; and with that song 

heavy subsume :h deep wave. 



Religious Vovjs. . 335 

Mine eye, that, far as it was capable, 
Pursued her, when in dimness she was lost, 
Turned to the mark where greater want impelled, 
And bent on Beatrice all its gaze. 
But she, as lightning, beamed upon my looks ; 
So that the sight sustained it not at first. 
Whence I to question her became less prompt.* 

Beatrice solves several doubts on metaphysical sub- 
jects by which the mind of the poet is perturbed : she 
interprets the doctrine of Plato regarding the return of 
the soul to the stars, and explains how Piccarda and 
Constance, having yielded to violence, had lost some 
portion of the merit which they would have acquired 
by their good intentions. The poet here asks of Bea- 
trice if man may supply the failure of his vows by other 
works. f On proceeding to solve this question, his 
guide thus sings the praise of liberty : — 

" Supreme of gifts which God creating gave 
Of His free bounty, sign most evident 
Of goodness, and in His account most prized, 
Was liberty of will ; the boon, wherewith 
All intellectual creatures, and them sole, 
He hath endowed." 

In the discussion which follows, Dante accepts the 
doctrine taught by mediaeval theology, which, measuring 
the sacrifice by the value of the gift sacrificed, consid- 
ered religious vows as the highest expression of religious 
worship. This theory, which is the basis of the mo- 
nastic orders and the ecclesiastical hierarchy in the 

* Paradiso, iii. j- Ibid., iv. 



336 Religious Vows. 

Papal Church, assumes that the apex of moral perfec- 
tion consists in the sacrifice of what is noblest in human 
nature. The theologians of that age had not yet seen 
that the suicide of the soul is no less criminal than 
that of the body, and that it can only be justified by 
the good intentions which may have prompted it in a 
state of society morally disorganized. No man can 
bind his faculties, essentially free, to a life in opposition 
to the laws of nature and the exigencies of social organ- 
ization ; nor can he disregard the sacred inviolability of 
his own conscience, morally bound to follow the light 
which illuminates the soul in the progress of its intellec- 
tual development. Religious vows, therefore, involv- 
ing the sacrifice of one's own personality, whether 
encouraged by the Papal Church or by the religion of 
the Brahmins, are essentially immoral, and ought not 
to be recognized in any system of civil government. 
Dante himself seems to have felt the error of the 

theorv which he borrowed from the notions of his 

j 

time ; for he not only placed in Paradise the spirits of 
those who violated their vows, but he says that no 
vow is legitimate which is not accepted by God ; who, 
being the author of human personality, cannot but re- 
gard its sacrifice as a criminal attempt to destroy His 
own noblest work. 

" Take then no vow at random : ta'en with faith, 
Preserve it ; yet not bent, as Jephthah once, 
Blindlv to execute a rash resolve, 
Whom better it had suited to exclaim, 



Mercury. 237 

' I have done ill,' than to redeem his pledge 

By doing worse : or, not unlike to him 

In folly, that great leader of the Greeks ; 

Whence, on the altar, Iphigenia mourned 

Her virgin beauty, and hath since made mourn 

Both wise and simple, even all, who hear 

Of so fell sacrifice. Be ye more staid, 

O Christians ! not, like feather, by each wind 

Removable ; nor think to cleanse yourselves 

In every water. Either Testament, 

The Old and New, is yours : and for your guide, 

The shepherd of the Church. Let this suffice 

To save you. When by evil lust enticed, 

Remember ye be men, not senseless beasts ; 

Nor let the Jew, who dwelleth in your streets, 

Hold you in mockery. Be not as the lamb, 

That, fickle wanton, leaves its mother's milk, 

To dally with itself in idle play." 
***** 

Though mainly prompt new question to propose, 
Her silence and changed look did keep me dumb, 
And as the arrow, ere the cord is still, 
Leapeth unto its mark ; so on we sped 
Into the second realm. There I beheld 
The dame, so joyous, enter, that the orb 
Grew brighter at her smiles ; and, if the star 
Were moved to gladness, what then was my cheer, 
Whom nature hath made apt for every change ! 

As in a quiet and clear lake the fish, 
If aught approach them from without, do draw 
Towards it, deeming it their food ; so drew 
Full more than thousand splendors towards us ; 
And in each one was heard : " Lo ! one arrived 
To multiply our loves !" and as each came, 
30 



338 The Emperor Justinian. 

The shadow, streaming forth effulgence new, 
Witnessed augmented joy. Here, Reader ! think, 
If thou didst miss the sequel of my tale, 
To know the rest how sorely thou wouldst crave ; 
And thou shalt see what vehement desire 
Possessed me, soon as these had met my view, 
To know their state. " O born in happy hour ! 
Thou, to whom grace vouchsafes, or ere thy close 
Of fleshly warfare, to behold the thrones 
Of that eternal triumph ; know, to us 
The light communicated, which through heaven 
Expatiates without bound. Therefore, if aught 
Thou of our beams wouldst borrow for thine aid, 
Spare not; and, of our radiance, take thy fill." 
Thus of those piteous spirits one bespake me ; 
And Beatrice next: (S Say on ; and trust 
As unto gods." — " How in the light supreme 
Thou harbor'st, and from thence the virtue bring'st, 
That, sparkling in thine eyes, denotes thy joy, 
I mark : but, who thou art, am still to seek ; 
Or wherefore, worthy spirit ! for thy lot 
This sphere assigned, that oft from mortal ken 
Is veiled by other's beams." I said; and turned 
Toward the lustre, that with greeting kind 
Erewhile had hailed me. Forthwith, brighter far 
Than erst, it waxed : and, as himself the sun 
Hides through excess of light, when his warm gaze 
Hath on the mantle of thick vapors preyed ; 
Within its proper ray the saintly shape 
Was, through increase of gladness, thus concealed ; 
And, shrouded so in splendor, answered me, 
E'en as the tenor of my song declares.* 

* Paradiso, v. 



The Emperor Justinian. 339 

The spirit proves to be the Emperor Justinian, who 
speaks of his own actions, and particularly of the for- 
mation of the code which bears his name. He then 
relates the history of Rome, from the foundation of the 
city to his own reign. He celebrates the deeds of 
Julius Caesar and of Augustus, and believes that the 
safety of the world will be secured by the revival of 
the empire. Hence he denounces those who oppose the 
imperial eagles, — the Guelphs, the monarchs of France 
and of Naples, their allies, as well as the Ghibelins 
themselves, who fight for the empire for selfish pur- 
poses. 

. . . . " Judge then for thyself 
Of those, whom I erewhile accused to thee, 
What they are, and how grievous their offending, 
Who are the cause of all your ills. The one 
Against the universal ensign rears 
The yellow lilies ; and with partial aim, 
That, to himself, the other arrogates : 
So that 'tis hard to see who most offends. 
Be yours, ye Ghibelins, to veil your hearts 
Beneath another standard : ill is this 
Followed of him, who severs it and justice : 
And let not with his Guelphs the new-crowned Charles 
Assail it ; but those talons hold in dread, 
Which from a lion of more lofty port 
Have rent the casing. Many a time ere now 
The sons have for the sire's transgression wailed : 
Nor let him trust the fond belief, that Heaven 
Will truck its armor for his lilied shield. 

" This little star is furnished with good spirits, 



340 Romeo. 

Whose mortal lives were busied to that end, 

That honor and renown might wait on them: 

And, when desires thus err in their intention, 

True love must needs ascend with slacker beam. 

But it is part of our delight, to measure 

Our wages with the merit ; and admire 

The close proportion. Hence doth heavenly justice 

Temper so evenly affection in us/ 

It ne'er can warp to any wrongfulness. 

Of diverse voices is sweet music made : 

So in our life the different degrees 

Render sv/eet harmony among these wheels. 

" Within the pearl, that now encloseth us, 
Shines Romeo's light, whose goodly deed and fair 
Met ill acceptance. But the Provencals, 
That were his foes, have little cause for mirth. 
Ill shapes that man his course, who makes his wrong 
Of other's worth. Four daughters were there born 
To Raymond Berenger; and every one 
Became a queen : and this for him did Romeo, 
Though of mean state and from a foreign land. 
Yet envious tongues incited him to ask 
A reckoning of that just one, who returned 
Twelve-fold to him for ten. Aged and poor 
He parted thence : and if the world did know 
The heart he had, begging his life by morsels, 
'Twould deem the praise it yields him scanty dealt." 

Romeo, to whom the poet here alludes, had long and 
faithfully served Raymond Berenger, Count of Prov- 
ence > and when an account was required of him, of 
the revenues he had carefully husbanded and his master 
as lavishly disbursed, " he demanded the little mule," 



Beatrice Instructs the Poet. 



341 



says Villani, " the staff, and the scrip, with which he 
had first entered into the Count's service — a stranger 
pilgrim from the shrine of St. James in Galicia — and 
departed as he came ; nor was it ever known whence 
he was, or whither he went."* 

The spirit of Justinian now returns to his orbit, and 
joins the other bright beings who dwell there : — 

Thus chanting saw I turn that substance bright, 
With four-fold lustre to its orb again, 
Revolving; and the rest, unto their dance, 
With it, moved also ; and, like swiftest sparks, 
In sudden distance from my sight were veiled. 

Me doubt possessed ; and cc Speak," it whispered me, 
" Speak, speak unto thy lady ; that she quench 
Thy thirst with drops of sweetness." Yet blank awe, 
Which lords it o'er me, even at the sound 
Of Beatrice's name, did bow me down 
As one in slumber held. Not long that mood 
Beatrice suffered : she, with such a smile, 
As might have made one blest amid the flames, 
Beaming upon me, thus her words began : 
" Thou in thy thought art pondering (as I deem, 

And what I deem is truth) how just revenge I 

Could be with justice punished : from which doubt 
I soon will free thee ; so thou mark my words ; 
For they of weighty matter shall possess thee." 

Here Beatrice instructs the poet on the problem of 
salvation, reconciling Divine justice with the crucifixion 
of Jesus Christ, and the necessity of His sufferings, with 
the punishment of the people who put Him to death. 

* Paradiso, vi. 
30* 



34 2 Penus. 

Then referring to the immortality of the soul and the 
final resurrection, she concludes :— 

u The angels, O my brother ! and this clime 
Wherein thou art, impassible and pure, 
I call created, even as they are 
In their whole being. But the elements 
Which thou hast named, and what of them is made, 
Are by created virtue informed : create, 
Their substance ; and create, the informing virtue 
In these bright stars, that round them circling move. 
The soul of every brute and of each plant. 
The ray and motion of the sacred lights, 
Draw from complexion with meet power endued. 
But this our life the eternal good inspires 
Immediate, and enamors of itself; 
So that our wishes rest forever here. 

" And hence thou mayst by inference conclude 
Our resurrection certain, if thy mind 
Consider how the human flesh was framed, 
When both our parents at the first were made."* 

Dante finds himself in the planet Venus : — 

I was not ware that I was wafted up 
Into its orb ; but the new loveliness, 
That graced my lady, gave me ample proof 
That we had entered there. And as in flame 
A sparkle is distinct, or voice in voice 
Discerned, when one its even tenor keeps, 
The other comes and goes ; so in that light 
I other luminaries saw, that coursed 

* Paradiso, vii. 



Charles Martel. 343 

In circling motion, rapid more or less, 
As their eternal vision each impels. 

Never was blast from vapor charged with cold, 
Whether invisible to eye or no, 
Descended with such speed ; it had not seemed 
To linger in dull tardiness, compared 
To those celestial lights, that towards us came, 
Leaving the circuit of their joyous ring, 
Conducted by the lofty seraphim. 
And after them, who in the van appeared, 
Such an Hosanna sounded as hath left 
Desire, ne'er since extinct in me, to hear 
Renewed the strain. Then, parting from the rest, 
One near us drew, and sole began : " We all 
Are ready at thy pleasure, well disposed 
To do thee gentle service. We are they, 
To whom thou in the world erewhile didst sing ; 
' O ye ! whose intellectual ministry 
Moves the third heaven:' and in one orb we roll, 
One motion, one impulse, with those who rule 
Princedoms in heaven; yet are of love so full, 
That to please thee 'twill be as sweet to rest." 

After mine eyes had with meek reverence 
Sought the celestial guide, and were by her 
Assured, they turned again unto the light, 
Who had so largely promised : and with voice 
That bore the lively pressure of my zeal, 
" Tell who ye are," I cried. Forthwith it grew 
In size and splendor, through augmented joy ; 
And thus it answered : "A short date, below, 
The world possessed me. Had the time been more, 
Much evil, that will come, had never chanced. 
My gladness hides thee from me, which doth shine 



344 Charles Martel. 

Around, and shroud me, as an animal 
In its own silk enswathed. Thou lovedst me well, 
And hadst good cause ; for had my sojourning 
Been longer on the earth, the love I bare thee 
Had put forth more than blossoms." 

The shade reveals himself as Charles Martel, the 
son of Charles II., King of Naples, who had inherited 
from his mother Maria, sister of Ladislaus IV., King 
of Hungary, the right to that crown. Charles was 
crowned at Naples ; but before he could obtain pos- 
session of his kingdom he died, in 1295, at the age of 
twenty-three years. Four years before his death he 
had married Clemenza, daughter of Rudolph of Haps- 
burg, Emperor of Germany, by whom he had a son, 
Carlo Roberto, or Carobert, who, in 1308, was elected 
King of Hungary. Dante had met Charles Martel in 
Naples, in his official visits to that city, and entertained 
for him a warm friendship. He had seen him again in 
1295, when Charles came to Florence to meet his father 
and brothers, released from their condition as host- 
ages in the hands of the Aragons. Accompanied by 
two hundred young cavaliers, dressed like the King in 
Hungarian costume, the young prince was received by 
the Florentines with great demonstrations of affection, 
and in these festivities Dante had taken a prominent 
part. Charles here describes the lands over which he 
had the right to rule, and says that, had it not been for the 
ill policy followed by his ancestor, Charles of Anjou, 
which resulted in the massacre of the Sicilian Vespers, 



Charles Martel. 345 

his dynasty would not have been expelled from Sicily. 
If his brother Robert would remember that event, he 
would not allow the courtiers whom he had brought 
with him from Catalonia to devour the people over 
whom he rules. His bark is already overladen, and 
needs not more freight. He, the son of Charles II., so 
liberal and splendid, is too penurious himself, and too 
greedy, to have ministers who add to the burdens which 
he imposes on the people. Here the spirit answers the 
question proposed by Dante, how a covetous son can 
spring from a liberal father. A philosophical disserta- 
tion follows, on the causes why children differ in dis- 
position from their parents. Nature has made all 
things right, and directed to certain ends ; she has accord- 
ingly endowed men with different qualities, so as to ren- 
der possible the various offices required by civil society. 
It is only by following his calling that man can succeed. 

. . . . " Nature ever, 
Finding discordant fortune, like all seed 
Out of its proper climate, thrives but ill 
And were the world below content to mark 
And work on the foundation nature lays, 
It would not lack supply of excellence. 
But ye perversely to religion strain 
Him, who was born to gird on him the sword, 
And of the fluent phraseman make your king : 
Therefore your steps have wandered from the path."* 

The next canto opens with an apostrophe to the 
beautiful Clemenza, the daughter of Charles Martel 

* Paradiso, viii. 



346 tte Ghost of Cunizza. 

and wife of Louis X,, King of France, who was still 
living when these verses w T ere written. 

And now the visage of that saintly light 

Was to the sun, that fills it, turned again, 
As to the good, whose plenitude of bliss 
Suffice :h all. O ye misguided souls ! 
Infatuate, who from such a good estrange 
Your hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity, 
Alas for you ! — And lo ! toward me, next, 
Another of those splendent forms approached, 
That, by its outward brightening, testified 
The will it had to pleasure me. The eyes 
Of Beatrice, resting, as before, 
Firmly upon me, manifested forth 
Approval of my wish. " And O," I cried, 
" Blest spirit ! quickly be my will performed; 
And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughts 
I can reflect on thee." Thereat the light, 
That yet was new to me, from the recess, 
~V\ here it before was singing, thus began, 
As one who joys in kindness. 

The spirit reveals itself to be that of Cunizza, sister 
of Ezzelino III., the tyrant who, descending from his 
castle of Romano, situated on a hill between the Marca 
Trevigiana, Padua, and Venice, had carried slaughter 
and conflagration through the surrounding country. 
Cunizza had been beloved bv Sordello, and thus finds 
herself in the planet Venus ; but she does not regret the 
love which prevents her from rising higher in heaven. 
She points out the lustrous splendor of Folco of Genoa, 



Folques of Marseilles. 347 

a celebrated Provencal poet, commonly called Folques 
of Marseilles. She says, that before the memory of 
Folco shall perish on the earth, many ages will have 
passed ; and she exclaims : — 

" Consider thou 
If to excel be worthy man's endeavor, 
When such life may attend the first." 

She takes occasion to inveigh against the people of the 
Marca Trevigiana and of Padua, for their vices, and 
foretells many calamities which afterwards befell them. 
The spirit of Folco — 

that other joyance, meanwhile waxed 

A thing to marvel at, in splendor glowing, 
Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun. 
For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes 
Of gladness, as here laughter : and below, 
As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. 

Folco now relates the story of his love for a lady 
believed to have been Adalagia, wife of Baral of Mar- 
seilles, at whose court he lived. On her death he 
became a monk, and was soon after elected bishop of 
that city, then archbishop of Toulouse. He explains 
the reason why his passion did not prevent him from 
entering heaven : — 

And yet there bides 
No sorrowful repentance here, but mirth, 
Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind), 
But for the virtue, whose o'erruling sway 



348 'fhe Sun. 

And providence have wrought thus quaintly. Here 
The skill is looked into, that fashioneth 
With such effectual working, and the good 
Discerned, accruing to the lower world 
From this above. 

He then points out the spirit of Rahab, the harlot of 
Jericho, sparkling as the sunbeam on clear water. She 
is blessed — 

" For that she favored first the high exploit 

Of Joshua on the holy land, whereof 

The Pope recks little now. Thy city, plant 

Of him, that on his Maker turned the back, 

i\nd of whose envying so much woe hath sprung, 

Engenders and expands the cursed flower, 

That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs, 

Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this, 

The Gospel and great teachers laid aside, 

The decretals, as their stuffed margins show, 

Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals, 

Intent on these, ne'er journey but in thought 

To Nazareth, where Gabriel oped his wings. 

Yet it may chance, ere long, the Vatican, 

And other most selected parts of Rome, 

That were the grave of Peter's soldiery, 

Shall be delivered from the adulterous bond."* 

The poet invites the reader to rise with him to the 
1 point in those lofty spheres where the equator inter- 
sects the zodiac, to the sun, which is the fourth heaven, 
where, led by Beatrice, he finds himself borne with the 
velocity of thought. 

* Paradiso, ix. 



I'ke Spirits in the Sun, 



349 



For Beatrice, she who passeth on 
So suddenly from good to better, time 
Counts not the act, oh then how great must needs 
Have been her brightness ! What there was i' th' sun 
(Where I had entered), not through change of hue, 
But light transparent — did I summon up 
Genius, art, practice — I might not so speak, 
It should be e'er imagined : yet believed 
It may be, and the sight be justly craved. 
And if our fantasy fail of such height, 
What marvel, since no eye above the sun 
Hath ever travelled ? Such are they dwell here, 
Fourth family of the Omnipotent Sire, 
Who of His Spirit and of His offspring shows ; 
And holds them still enraptured with the view. 
And thus to me Beatrice : " Thank, oh thank 
The Sun of angels, Him, who by His grace 
To this perceptible hath lifted thee." 

Never was heart in such devotion bound, 
And with complacency so absolute 
Disposed to render up itself to God, 
As mine was at those words : and so entire 
The love for Him, that held me, i| eclipsed 
Beatrice in oblivion. Naught displeased 
Was she, but smiled thereat so joyously, 
That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake, 
And scattered my collected mind abroad. 

Then saw I a bright band, in liveliness 
Surpassing, who themselves did make the crown, 
And us their centre : yet more sweet in voice, 
Than, in their visage, beaming. Cinctured thus, 
Sometime Latona's daughter we behold, 
When the impregnate air retains the thread 
3i 



35° St. 'Thomas Aquinas. 

That weaves her zone. In the celestial court, 

Whence I return, are many jewels found, 

So dear and beautiful, they cannot brook 

Transporting from that realm : and of these lights 

Such was the song. Who doth not prune his wing 

To soar up thither, let him look from thence 

For tidings from the dumb. When, singing thus, 

Those burning suns had circled round us thrice, 

As nearest stars around the fixed pole ; 

Then seemed they like to ladies, from the dance 

Not ceasing, but suspense, in silent pause, 

Listening, till they have caught the strain anew : 

Suspended so they stood : and, from within, 

Thus heard I one, who spake : " Since with its beam 

The grace, whence true love lighteth first his flame, 

That after doth increase by loving, shines 

So multiplied in thee, it leads thee up 

Along this ladder, down whose hallowed steps 

None e'er descend, and mount them not again ; 

Who from his vial should refuse thee wine 

To slake thy thirst, no less constrained were, 

Than water flowing not unto the sea. 

Thou fain wouldst hear what plants are these, that bloom 

In the bright garland, which, admiring, girds 

This fair dame round, who strengthens thee for heaven." 

The voice is that of Thomas Aquinas, the pupil of 
Albertus Magnus, the angel of the schools. He points 
out to the poet the great luminaries of the Church : 
Gratian, the Benedictine monk, author of an abridg- 
ment of the canon law ; Peter Lombard, professor at 
the University of Paris, then bishop of the same city ; 
Solomon, endowed with sapience so profound, that no 



St. Thomas Aquinas. 



w 



second has ever risen with a mind of such wide am- 
plitude ; St. Dionysius the Areopagite, to whom was 
shown the nature and the ministry of the angels ; then 
St. Ambrose, the teacher of St. Augustine ; Boethius, 
the saintly soul that shows the world's deceitfulness 
to all who hear him ; Isidore, archbishop of Seville ; 
the venerable Bede ; Richard of St. Victor ; and Si- 
gier, the teacher of the poet while in Paris. Forth- 
with — 

As clock, that calleth up the spouse of God 
To win her bridegroom's love at matin's hour, 
Each part of other fitly drawn and urged, 
Sends out a tinkling sound, of note so sweet, 
Affection springs in well-disposed breast ; 
Thus saw I move the glorious wheel ; thus heard 
Voice answering voice, so musical and soft, 
It can be known but where day endless shines.* 

O fond anxiety of mortal men ! 
How vain and inconclusive arguments 
Are those, which make thee beat thy wings below ! 
For statutes one, and one for aphorisms 
Was hunting ; this the priesthood followed ; that, 
By force or sophistry, aspired to rule ; 
To rob, another; and another sought, 
By civil business, wealth ; one, moiling, lay 
Tangled in net of sensual delight ; 
And one to wistless indolence resigned; 
What time from all these empty things escaped, 
With Beatrice, I thus gloriously 
Was raised aloft, and made the guest of heaven. 

* Paradiso, x. 



352 St. Francis of Assisi. 

Dante here beholds the light in which the spirit of 
Aquinas dwells, smiling with gladness. A member of 
the Dominican Order, St. Thomas is introduced to 
exalt the life of St. Francis of Assisi ; as, in the 
following canto, St. Bonaventura, of the Franciscan 
Order, celebrates the praise of St. Dominic, with the 
manifest intention of condemning all sectarian spirit 
between the various denominations of Christianity, and 
of rebuking the monks of the two orders for their jeal- 
ousies and quarrels. Corresponding to certain tempo- 
rary w T ants of society, these religious institutions had 
been powerful instruments of civilization, which, on its 
first rising from barbarism, could not but receive an 
impulse through the saintly devotion, the ardent zeal, 
and the Christian virtues, of which their founders w T ere 
noble examples. The poet felt particular veneration 
for the saint of Assisi, a bold reformer of the Church, 
who had united a tender sympathy with the charms and 
beauties of nature, to a character ennobled by the sen- 
timent of his entire dependence on God, and had erru- 
bodied in his life of poverty and self-denial the ideal of 
the religion of Christ. He was born in Assisi, 1182 ; in 
early life, called by the voice of God, he renounced all 
worldly goods, and, against the will of his father, com- 
menced a new life as a bes^ino; friar, living; in humility 
and poverty. Followed by many religious enthusiasts, 
in 1210 he founded the Order of Franciscans, and con- 
secrated the noble ladies of Assisi, St. Clare and St. 
Agnes, who felt themselves called to imitate him. His 



St. Francis of Assist. 353 

Order was approved by Innocent III., under the influ- 
ence of a dream, in which he saw the saint propping up 
the Church with his shoulders ; the institution was con- 
firmed by Honorius III. St. Francis visited Egypt, in 
order to preach the Gospel, but soon returned to Italy. 
According to the legend, in 1226, while on Mount Ver- 
nia, he received the stigmata, or marks resembling the 
wounds of Christ, on his body ; and tv/o years after, 
when he died, he was seen by Father Elias, the friend of 
Frederick II., ascending to heaven, in the form of a 
brilliant star, on a white cloud — the birds, whom the 
saint loved (his brothers, as he delighted to call them), 
singing his requiem as he ascended. St. Thomas thus 
alludes to the principal events in the life of St. Francis, 
and particularly to his marriage w^ith poverty, a figure 
which was adopted by Cimabue and Giotto, in the his- 
tory of the saint painted by them in the church of the 
Franciscans of Assisi : — 

" Between Tupino, and the wave that falls 
From blest Ubaldo's chosen hill, there hangs 
Rich slope of mountain high, whence heat and cold 
Are wafted through Perugia's eastern gate ; 
And Nocera with Gualdo, in its rear, 
Mourn for their heavy yoke. Upon that side, 
Where it doth break its steepness most, arose 
A sun upon the world, as duly this 
From Ganges doth : therefore let none, who speak 
Of that place, say Ascesi ; for its name 
Were lamely so delivered ; but the East, 
To call things rightly, be it henceforth styled. 
31* 



354 &• Francis of Assisi. 

He was not yet much distant from his rising, 

When his good influence 'gan to bless the earth. 

A dame, to whom none openeth pleasure's gate 

More than to death, was, 'gainst his father's will, 

His stripling choice : and he did make her his, 

Before the spiritual court, by nuptial bonds, 

And in his father's sight : from day to day, 

Then loved her more devoutly. She, bereaved 

Of her first husband, slighted and obscure, 

Thousand and hundred years and more, remained 

Without a single suitor, till he came. 

Nor aught availed, that, with Amyclas, she 

Was found unmoved at rumor of his voice, 

Who shook the world : nor aught her constant boldness 

Whereby with Christ she mounted on the cross, 

When Mary stayed beneath. But not to deal 

Thus closely with thee longer, take at large 

The lovers' titles — Poverty and Francis. 

Their concord and glad looks, wonder and love, 

And sweet regard gave birth to holy thoughts, 

So much, that venerable Bernard first 

Did bare his feet, and, in pursuit of peace 

So heavenly, ran, yet deemed his footing slow. 

O hidden riches ! O prolific good ! 

Egidius bares him next, and next Sylvester, 

And follow, both, the bridegroom : so the bride 

Can please them. Thenceforth goes he on his way, 

The father and the master, with his spouse, 

And with that family, whom now the cord 

Girt humbly : nor did abjectness of heart 

Weigh down his eyelids, for that he was son 

Of Pietro Bernardone, and by men 

In wondrous sort despised. But royally 



St. Dominic. 355 

His hard intention he to Innocent 
Set forth ; and, from him, first received the seal 
On his religion. Then, when numerous flocked 
The tribe of lowly ones, that traced his steps, 
Whose marvellous life deservedly were sung 
In heights empyreal ; through Honorius' hand 
A second crown, to deck their Guardian's virtues, 
Was by the eternal Spirit inwreathed : and when 
He had, through thirst of martyrdom, stood up 
In the proud Soldan's presence, and there preached 
Christ and His followers, but found the race 
Unripened for conversion ; back once more 
He hasted (not to intermit his toil), 
And reaped Ausonian lands. On the hard rock, 
'Twixt Arno and the Tiber, he from Christ 
Took the last signet, which his limbs two years 
Did carry. Then, the season come that he, 
Who to such good had destined him, was pleased 
To advance him to the meed, which he had earned 
By his self-hurnbling ; to his brotherhood, 
As their just heritage, he gave in charge 
His dearest lady : and enjoined their love 
And faith to her ; and, from her bosom, willed 
His goodly spirit should move forth, returning 
To its appointed kingdom ; nor would have 
His body laid upon another bier." 

Here St. Thomas pays a tribute of veneration to St. 
Dominic, the founder of the Order to which he be- 
longed, and rebukes the Dominicans of his own time, 
who had abandoned the spirit of their patriarch, and 
given themselves up to a worldly life.* 

* Paradiso, xi. 



356 St. Bonaventura. 

Soon as its final word the blessed flame 
Had raised for utterance, straight the holy mill 
Began to wheel ; nor yet had once revolved, 
Or e'er another, circling, compassed it, 
Motion to motion, song to song, conjoining; 
Song, that as much our muses doth excel, 
Our Syrens with their tuneful pipes, as ray 
Of primal splendor doth its faint reflex. 
As when, if Juno bid her handmaid forth, 
Two arches parallel, and tricked alike, 
Span the thin cloud, the outer taking birth 
From that within (in manner of that voice 
Whom love did melt away, as sun the mist), 
And they who gaze, presageful call to mind 
The compact made with Noah, of the world 
• No more to be o'erflowed ; about us thus, 
Of sempiternal roses, bending, wreathed 
Those garlands twain ; and to the innermost 
E'en thus the external answered. When the footing, 
And other great festivity, of song, 
And radiance, light with light accordant, each 
Jocund and blithe, had at their pleasure stilled 
(E'en as the eyes, by quick volition moved, 
Are shut and raised together), from the heart 
Of one among the new lights moved a voice, 
That made me seem like needle to the star, 
In turning to its whereabout. 

This light proves to be the spirit of St. Bonaventura, 
who sings the praise of St. Dominic, the Castilian 
monk : — 

" The loving minion of the Christian faith, 
The hallowed wrestler, gentle to his own, 



St. Dominic. 357 

And to his enemies terrible. So replete 

His soul with lively virtue, that when first 

Created, even in the mother's womb, 

It prophesied. When, at the sacred font, 

The spousals were complete 'twixt faith and him, 

Where pledge of mutual safety was exchanged, 

The dame, who was his surety, in her sleep 

Beheld the wondrous fruit, that was from him 

And from his heirs to issue. And that such 

He might be construed, as indeed he was, 

She was inspired to name him of his owner, 

Whose he was wholly ; and so called him Dominic. 

And I speak of him, as the laborer, 

Whom Christ in His own garden chose to be 

His helpmate. Messenger he seemed, and friend 

Fast knit to Christ ; and the first love he showed, 

Was after the first counsel that Christ gave. 

Many a time his nurse, at entering, found 

That he had risen in silence, and was prostrate, 

As who should say, c My errand was for this.' 

O happy father ! Felix rightly named. 

O favored mother ! rightly named Joanna ; 

If that do mean, as men interpret it. 

Not for the world's sake, for which now they toil 

Upon Ostiense and Taddeo's lore, 

But for the real manna, soon he grew 

Mighty in learning ; and did set himself 

To go about the vineyard, that soon turns 

To wan and withered, if not tended well : 

And from the see (whose bounty to the just 

And needy is gone by, not through its fault, 

But his who fills it basely), he besought, 

No dispensation for commuted wrong, 

o 61 



\ 



358 The Dance of the Spirits. 

Nor the first vacant fortune, nor the tenths 

That to God's paupers rightly appertain, 

But, 'gainst an erring and degenerate world, 

License to fight, in favor of that seed 

From which the twice twelve scions gird thee round. 

Then, with sage doctrine and good-will to help, 

Forth on his great apostleship he fared, 

Like torrent bursting from a lofty vein ; 

And, dashing 'gainst the stocks of heresy, 

Smote fiercest, where resistance was most stout. 

Thence many rivulets have since been turned, 

Over the garden catholic to lead 

Their living waters, and have fed its plants." 

St. Bonaventura deplores the decline of the true 
faith which had given birth to religious orders, and 
points out other spirits who are dancing in the circle.* 

Let him, whc would conceive what now I say. 

Imagine Ur.d re:z:n the ::":rr r.rrr. 

As mountain rock, the whilst he hears me speak), 

Of stars, fifteen, from midst the ethereal host 

Selected, that, with livery ray serene, 

O'ercome the massiest air: there:: imagine 

The wain, that, in the bosom of our sky, 

Spins ever on its axle night and day, 

With the bright summit of that horn, which swells 

Due from the pole, round which the first wheel rolls, 

To have ranged themselves in fashion of tw: signs 

In heaven, such as Ariadne made, 

When death's chill seized her ; and that one of them 

Did compass in the other's beam ; and both 

* Paradiso, xii. 



Instruction. 359 

In such sort whirled around, that each should tend 

With opposite motion : and, conceiving thus, 

Of that true constellation, and the dance 

Twofold, that circled me, he shall attain 

As 'twere the shadow ; for things there as much 

Surpass our usage, as the swiftest heaven 

Is swifter than the Chiana. There was sung 

No Bacchus, and no Io Paean, but 

Three Persons in the Godhead, and in one 

Person that nature and the human joined. 

St. Thomas now instructs the poet in the mystery 
of creation, explaining the metaphysical relation of 
created things to the Deity, and exalts Adam and Jesus 
as the ideals of humanity. He warns Dante against 
assenting to any proposition without having duly ex- 
amined it. 

" Let not the people be too swift to judge; 
As one who reckons on the blades in field, 
Or e'er the crop be ripe. For I have seen 
The thorn frown rudely all the winter long, 
And after bear the rose upon its top ; 
And bark, that all her way across the sea 
Ran straight and speedy, perish at the last 
E'en in the haven's mouth. Seeing one steal, 
Another bring his offering to the priest, 
Let not Dame Birtha and Sir Martin thence 
Into heaven's counsels deem that they can pry : 
For one of these may rise, the other fell."* 

When the great spirit of Aquinum ceases, Beatrice, 
conscious of the unexpressed desire of Dante, says : — 

* Paradiso, xiii, 



360 Solomon. 

u Need there is (though yet 
He tells it to you not in words, nor e'en 
In thought) that he should fathom to its depth 
Another mystery. Tell him, if the light, 
Wherewith your substance blooms, shall stay with you 
Eternally, as now; and, if it doth, 
How, when ye shall regain your visible forms, 
The sight may without harm endure the change, 
That also tell." As those, who in a ring 
Tread the light measure, in their fitful mirth 
Raise loud the voice, and spring with gladder bound; 
Thus, at the hearing of that pious suit, 
The saintly circles, in their tourneying 
And wondrous note, attested new delight. 

Whoso laments, that we must doff this garb 
Of frail mortality, thenceforth to live 
Immortally above ; he hath not seen 
The sweet refreshing of that heavenly shower. 

Him, who lives ever, and forever reigns 
In mystic union of the Three in One, 
Unbounded, bounding all, each spirit thrice 
Sang, with such melody, as, but to hear, 
For highest merit were an ample meed. 

Solomon, th'e goodliest light, now, with voice as 
gentle as that with which the angel once saluted Mary, 
thus replies : — 

cc Long as the joy of Paradise shall last, 
Our love shall shine around that raiment, bright 
As fervent ; fervent as, in vision, blest ; 
And that as far, in blessedness, exceeding, 
As it hath grace, beyond its virtue, great. 
Our shape, regarmented with glorious weeds 



"The Smile of Beatrice. 361 

Of saintly flesh, must, being thus entire, 

Show yet more gracious. Therefore shall increase 

Whate'er, of light, gratuitous imparts 

The Supreme Good ; light, ministering aid, 

The better to disclose His glory; whence, 

The vision needs increasing, must increase 

The fervor which it kindles ; and that too 

The ray that comes from it. But as the gleed 

Which gives out flame, yet in its whiteness shines 

More livelily than that, and so preserves 

Its proper semblance ; thus this circling sphere 

Of splendor shall to view less radiant seem, 

Than shall our fleshly robe, which yonder earth 

Now covers. Nor will such excess of light 

O'erpower us, in corporeal organs made 

Firm, and susceptible of all delight." 

So ready and so cordial an "Amen" 
Followed from either choir, as plainly spoke 
Desire of their dead bodies ; yet perchance 
Not for themselves, but for their kindred dear, 
Mothers and sires, and those whom best they loved, 
Ere they were made imperishable flame. 

And lo ! forthwith there rose up round about 
A lustre, over that already there ; 
Of equal clearness, like the brightening up 
Of the horizon. As at evening hour 
Of twilight, new appearances through heaven 
Peer with faint glimmer, doubtfully descried ; 
So, there, new substances, methought, began 
To rise in view beyond the other twain, 
And wheeling, sweep their ampler circuit wide. 

O genuine glitter of eternal Beam ! 
With what a sudden whiteness did it flow, 
32 



"•> 



362 Mars. 

O'erpowering vision in me. But so fair, 

So passing lovely, Beatrice showed, 

Mind cannot follow it, nor words express 

Her infinite sweetness. Thence mine eyes regained 

Power to look up ; and I beheld myself, 

Sole with my lady, to more lofty bliss 

Translated : for the star, with warmer smile 

Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. 

The poet now finds himself with Beatrice in the 
planet Mars, w T hich contains the spirits of those who 
died in defence of the Christian faith. They appear to 
him as lights, forming two luminous lists in the form of 
a cross, extending over the surface of the planet, along 
which they move. 

With such mighty sheen 
And mantling crimson, in two listed rays 
The splendors shot before me, that I cried, 
" God of Sabaoth ! that dost prank them thus !" 

As leads the galaxy from pole to pole, 
Distinguished into greater lights and less, 
Its pathway, which the wisest fail to spell ; 
So thickly studded, in the depth of Mars, 
Those rays described the venerable sign, 
That quadrants in the round conjoining frame. 

Here memory mocks the toil of genius. Christ 
Beam'd on that cross; and pattern fails me now; 
But whoso takes his cross, and follows Christ, 
Will pardon me for that I leave untold, 
When in the fleckered dawning he shall spy 
The glitterance of Christ. From horn to horn, 
And 'tween the summit and the base, did move 



Christian Warriors. 363 

Lights scintillating, as they met and passed. 
Thus oft are seen with ever-changeful glance, 
Straight or athwart, now rapid and now slow, 
The atomies of bodies, long or short, 
To move along the sunbeam, whose slant line 
Checkers the shadow interposed by art 
Against the noontide heat. And as the chime 
Of minstrel music, dulcimer, and harp 
With many strings, a pleasant dinning makes 
To him, who heareth not distinct the note ; 
So from the lights, which there appeared to me, 
Gathered along the cross a melody, 
That, indistinctly heard, with ravishment 
Possessed me. Yet I marked it was a hymn 
Of lofty praises; for there came to me 
" Arise," and " Conquer," as to one who hears 
And comprehends not. Me such ecstasy 
Overcame, that never, till that hour, was thing 
That held me in so sweet imprisonment.* 

True love, that ever shows itself as clear 
In kindness, as loose appetite in wrong, 
Silenced that lyre harmonious, and stilled 
The sacred chords, that are by Heaven's right hand 
Unwound and tightened. How to righteous prayers 
Should they not hearken, who, to give me will 
For praying, in accordance thus were mute ? 
He hath in sooth good cause for endless grief^ 
Who, for* the love of thing that lasteth not, 
Despoils himself forever of that love. 

As oft along the still and pure serene, 
At nightfall, glides a sudden trail of fire, 
Attracting with involuntary heed 

* Paradiso, xiv. 



364 Cacciagiiida. 

The eye to follow it, erewhile at rest ; 

And seems some star that shifted place in heaven, 

Only that, whence it kindles, none is lost, 

And it is soon extinct ; thus from the horn, 

That on the dexter of the cross extends, 

Down to its foot, one luminary ran 

From mid the cluster shone there ; yet no gem 

Dropp'd from its foil : and through the beamy list, 

Like flame in alabaster, glowed its course. 

So forward stretched him (if of credence aught 
Our greater muse may claim) the pious ghost 
Of old Anchises, in the Elysian bower, 
When he perceived his son. " O thou, my blood ! 

most exceeding grace divine ! to whom, 
As now to thee, hath twice the heavenly gate 

Been e'er unclosed ?" So spake the light : whence I 
Turned me toward him ; then unto my dame 
My sight directed : and on either side 
Amazement waited me ; for in her eyes 
Was lighted such a smile, I thought that mine 
Had dived unto the bottom of my grace 
And of my bliss in Paradise. Forthwith, 
To hearing and to sight grateful alike, 
The spirit to his proem added things 

1 understood not, so profound he spake : 
Yet not of choice, but through necessity, 
Mysterious ; for his high conception soared 
Beyond the mark of mortals. When the flight 
Of holy transport had so spent its rage, 

That nearer to the level of our thought 
The speech descended ; the first sounds I heard 
Were : "Blest be thou, Triunal Deity ! 
That such favor in my seed vouchsafed," 



Cacciagitida. 365 

Then followed : ce No unpleasant thirst, though long, 

Which took me reading in the sacred book, 

Whose leaves or white or dusky never change, 

Thou hast allayed, my son ! within this light, 

From whence my voice thou hear'st : more thanks to her, 

Who, for such lofty mounting, has w T ith plumes 

Begirt thee. Thou dost deem thy thoughts to me 

From Him transmitted, who is first of all, 

E'en as all numbers ray from unity ; 

And therefore dost not ask me who I am, 

Or why to thee more joyous I appear, 

Than any other in this gladsome throng. 

The truth is as thou deem'st ; for in this life 

Both less and greater in that mirror look, 

In which thy thoughts, or ere thou think'st, are shown. 

But, that the love, which keeps me wakeful ever, 

Urging with sacred thirst of sweet desire, 

May be contented fully ; let thy voice, 

Fearless, and frank, and jocund, utter forth 

Thy will distinctly, utter forth the wish, 

Whereto my ready answer stands decreed." 

I turned me to Beatrice ; and she heard 
Ere I had spoken, smiling an assent, 
That to my will gave wings ; and I began : 
cc To each among your tribe, what time ye kenned 
The nature, in whom naught unequal dwells, 
Wisdom and love were in one measure dealt ; 
For that they are so equal in the sun, 
From whence ye drew your radiance and your heat, 
As makes all likeness scant. But will and means, 
In mortals, for the cause ye well discern, 
With unlike wings are fledge. A mortal, I 
Experience inequality like this; 
32* 



366 Cacciaguida. 

And therefore give no thanks, but in the heart, 
For thy paternal greeting. This howe'er 
I pray thee, living topaz ! that ingemm'st ' 
This precious jewel ; let me hear thy name." 

cc l am thy root, O leaf! whom to expect 
Even, hath pleased me." Thus the prompt reply 
Prefacing, next it added : ce He, of whom 
Thy kindred appellation comes, and who, 
These hundred years and more, on its first ledge 
Hath circuited the mountain, was my son, 
And thy great grandsire. Well befits, his long 
Endurance should be shortened by thy deeds. 

<c Florence, within her ancbnt limit-mark, 
Which calls her still to matin prayers and noon, 
Was chaste and sober, and abode in peace. 
She had no armlets and no head- tires then ; 
No purfled dames; no zone, that caught the eye 
More than the person did. Time was not yet, 
When at his daughter's birth the sire grew pale, 
For fear the age and dowry should exceed, 
On each side, just proportion. House was none 
Void of its family : nor yet had come 
Sardanapalus, to exhibit feats 
Of chamber prowess. Montemalo yet 
O'er our suburban turret rose ; as much 
To be surpassed in fall, as in its rising. 
I saw Bellincion Berti walk abroad 
In leathern girdle, and a clasp of bone ; 
And, with no artfal coloring on her cheeks, 
His lady leave the glass. The sons I saw 
Of Nerli, and of Vecchio, well content 
With unrobed jerkin ; and their good dames handling 
The spindle and the flax : O bappy they ! 



Cacciaguida. 367 

Each sure of burial in her native land, 
And none left desolate a-bed for France. 
One waked to tend the cradle, hushing it 
With sounds that lulled the parent's infancy : 
Another, with her maidens, drawing off 
The tresses from the distaff, lectured them 
Old tales of Troy, and Fesole, and Rome. 
A Salterello and Cianghella we 
Had held as strange a marvel, as ye would 
A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now. 

" In such composed and seemly fellowship, 
Such faithful and such fair equality, 
In so sweet household, Mary at my birth 
Bestowed me, called on with loud cries ; and there, 
In your old baptistery, I was made 
Christian at once and Cacciaguida ; as were, 
My brethren Eliseo and Moronto. 

" From Valdipado came to me my spouse ; 
And hence thy surname grew. I followed then 
The Emperor Conrad ; and his knighthood he 
Did gird on me ; in such good part he took 
My valiant service. After him I went 
To testify against that evil law, 
Whose people, by the shepherd's fault, possess 
Your right usurped. There I by that foul crew 
Was disentangled from the treacherous world, 
Whose base affection many a spirit soils ; 
And from the martyrdom came to this peace."* 

The poet feels disposed to boast of his ancestry, 
whereupon he is reminded of his vanity by a smile from 
Beatrice. Meantime, Cacciaguida continues his de- 

* Paradiso, xv. 



368 CacciaguidcCs Prophecy. 

scription of Florence as it was in his time. He enu- 
merates the principal families of the city, and laments 
the introduction of strangers, who, by traffic, growing 
in wealth, but not in refinement, were the cause of the 
corruption of the city, and of its decline.* 
Dante now thus addresses his ancestor : — 

" O plant, from whence I spring ! revered and loved ! 
Who soar'st so high a pitch, that thou as clear, 
As earthly thought determines two obtuse 
In one triangle not contained, so clear 
Dost see contingencies, ere in themselves 
Existent, looking at the point whereto 
All times are present ; I, the while I scaled 
With Virgil the soul-purifying mount, 
And visited the nether world of woe, 
Touching my future destiny have heard 
Words grievous, though I feel me on all sides 
Well squared to Fortune's blows. Therefore my will 
Were satisfied to know the lot awaits me. 
The arrow, seen beforehand, slacks his flight." 

So said I to the brightness, w r hich erewhile 
To me had spoken ; and my will declared, 
As Beatrice willed, explicitly. 
Nor with oracular response obscure, 
Such as, or e'er the Lamb of God was slain, 
Beguiled the credulous nations : but, in terms 
Precise, and unambiguous lore, replied 
The spirit of paternal love, enshrined, 
Yet in his smile apparent ; and thus spake : 
€€ Contingency, whose verge extendeth not 
Beyond the tablet of your mortal mould, 

* Paradiso, xvi. 



Cacciagtrida } s Prophecy. 



3 6 9 



Is all depictured in the eternal light: 

But hence derive th not necessity, 

More than the tall ship, hurried down the flood, 

Is driven by the eye that looks on it. 

From thence as to the ear sweet harmony 

From organ comes, so comes before mine eye 

The time prepared for thee. Such as driven out 

From Athens, by his cruel stepdame's wiles, 

Hippolytus departed ; such must thou 

Depart from Florence. This they wish, and this 

Contrive, and will ere long effectuate, there, 

Where gainful merchandise is made of Christ 

Throughout the livelong day. The common cry 

Will, as 'tis ever wont, affix the blame 

Unto the party injured : but the truth 

Shall, in the vengeance it dispenseth, find 

A faithful witness. Thou shah leave each thing 

Beloved most dearly : this is the first shaft 

Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove ■ 

How salt the savor is of other's bread ; 

How hard the passage, to descend and climb 

By other's stairs. But that shall gall thee most, 

Will be the worthless and vile company, 

With whom thou must be thrown into these straits; 

For all ungrateful, impious all, and mad, 

Shall turn 'gainst thee : but in a little while, 

Theirs, and not thine, shall be the crimsoned brow. 

Their course shall so evince their brutishness, 

To have ta'en thy stand apart shall well become thee. 

" First refuge thou must find, first place of rest, 
In the great Lombard's courtesy, who bears, 
Upon the ladder perched, the sacred bird. 
He shall behold thee with such kind regard, 



370 Dante's Answer. 

That 'twixt ye two, the contrary to that 
Which 'falls 'twixt other men, the granting shall 
Forerun the asking. With him shalt thou see 
That mortal, who was at his birth impressed 
So strongly from this star, that of his deeds 
The nations shall take note. His unripe age 
Yet holds him from observance ; for these wheels 
Only nine years have compassed him about. 
But, ere the Gascon practise on great Harry, 
Sparkles of virtue shall shoot forth in him, 
In equal scorn of labors and of gold. 
His bounty shall be spread abroad so widely, 
As not to let the tongues, e'en of his foes, 
Be idle in its praise. Look thou to him, 
And his beneficence : for he shall cause 
Reversal of their lot to many people ; 
Rich men and beggars interchanging fortunes. 
And thou shalt bear this written in thy soul, 
Of him, but tell it not :" and things he told 
Incredible to those who witness them ; 
Then added : " So interpret thou, my son, 
What hath been told thee. — Lo ! the ambushment 
That a few circling seasons hide for thee. 
Yet envy not thy neighbors : time extends 
Thy span beyond their treason's chastisement." 
Soon as the saintly spirit, by silence, marked 
Completion of that web, which I had stretched 
Before it, warped for weaving ; I began, 
As one, who in perplexity desires 
Counsel of other, wise, benign, and friendly : 
" My father ! well I mark how time spurs on 
Toward me, ready to inflict the blow, 
Which falls most heavily on him who most 



CacciagiridcCs Charge. 



37 1 



Abandoneth himself. Therefore 'tis good 

I should forecast, that, driven from the place 

Most dear to me, I may not lose myself 

All other by my song. Down through the world 

Of infinite mourning; and along the mount, 

From whose fair height my lady's eyes did lift me ; 

And, after, through this heaven, from light to light ; 

Have I learned that, which if I tell again, 

It may with many wofully disrelish : 

And, if I am a timid friend to truth, 

I fear my life may perish among those, 

To whom these days shall be of ancient date." 

The brightness, where enclosed the treasure smiled, 
Which I had found there, first shone glisteringly, 
Like to a golden mirror in the sun ; 
Next answered : " Conscience, dimmed or by its own 
Or other's shame, will feel thy saying sharp. 
Thou, notwithstanding, all deceit removed, 
See the whole vision be made manifest. 
And let them wince, who have their withers wrung. 
What though, when tasted first, thy voice shall prove 
Unwelcome : on digestion, it will turn 
To vital nourishment. The cry thou raisest, 
Shall, as the wind doth, smite the proudest summits ; 
Which is of honor no light argument. 
For this, there only have been shown to thee, 
Throughout these orbs, the mountain, and the deep, 
Spirits, whom fame hath note of. For the mind 
Of him, who hears, is loath to acquiesce 
And fix its faith, unless the instance brought 
Be palpable, and proof apparent urge."* 

Cacciaguida points out to Dante the spirits of Joshua, 

* Paradiso, xvii. 



372 Jupiter. 

Judas Maccabaeus, Charlemagne, Orlando, William I. 

of Orange, Rinaldo, Godfrey of Bouillon, and Robert 

Guiscard. 

Then the soul 
Who spake with me, among the other lights 
Did move away, and mix ; and with the quire 
Of heavenly songsters proved his tuneful skill. 

To Beatrice on my right I bent, 
Looking for intimation, or by word 
Or act, what next behooved ; and did descry 
Such mere effulgence in her eyes, such joy, 
It passed all former wont.. And, as by sense 
Of new delight, the man who perseveres 
In good deeds, doth perceive, from day to day, 
His virtue growing; I e'en thus perceived, 
Of my ascent, together with the heaven, 
The circuit widened ; noting the increase 
Of beauty in that wonder. Like the change 
In a brief moment on some maiden's cheek, 
Which, from its fairness, doth discharge the weight 
Of pudency, that stained it ; such in her, 
And to mine eyes so sudden was the change, 
Through silvery whiteness of that temperate star, 
Whose sixth orb now enfolded us. I saw, 
Within that Jovial cresset, the clear sparks 
Of love, that reigned there, fashion to my view 
Our language. And as birds, from river-banks 
Arisen, now in round, now lengthened troop, 
Array them in their flight, greeting, as seems, 
Their new-found pastures ; so, within the lights, 
The saintly creatures flying, sang; and made 
Now D, now I, now L, figured i' the air. 
First singing to their notes they moved ; then, one 



tfhe Imperial Eagle. 373 

Becoming of these signs, a little while 
Did rest them, and were mute. O nymph divine, 
Of Pegasean race ! who souls, which thou 
Inspirest, makest glorious and long-lived, as they 
Cities and realms by thee ; thou with thyself 
Inform me ; that I may set forth the shapes, 
As fancy doth present them : be thy power 
Displayed in this brief song. The characters, 
Vocal and consonant, were fivefold seven. 
In order, each, as they appeared, I marked. 
Diligite Justitiam, the first, 

Both verb and noun all blazoned ; and the extreme, 
Qui judicatis terram. In the M 
Of the fifth word they held their station ; 
Making the star seem silver streaked with gold. 
And on the summit of the M, I saw 
Descending other lights, that rested there, 
Singing, methinks, their bliss and primal good. 
Then, as at shaking of a lighted brand, 
Sparkles innumerable on all sides 
Rise scattered, source of augury to the unwise ; 
Thus more than thousand twinkling lustres hence 
Seemed reascending ; and a higher pitch 
Some mounting, and some less, e'en as the sun, 
Which kindleth them, decreed. And when each one 
Had settled in his place, the head and neck 
Then saw I of an eagle, livelily 
Graved in that streaky fire. Who painteth there, 
Hath none to guide Him : of Himself he guides : 
And every line and texture of the nest 
Doth own from Him the- virtue fashions it. 
The other bright beatitude, that seemed 
Erewhile, with lilied crowning, well content 
33 



374 ^ le Imperial Eagle. 

To over-canopy the M, moved forth, 
Following gently the impress of the bird. 

Sweet star, what glorious and thick-studded gems 
Declared to me our justice on the earth 
To be the effluence of that heaven, which thou, 
Thyself a costly jewel, dost inlay, 
Therefore I pray the Sovereign Mind, from whom 
Thy motion and thy virtue are begun, 
That He would look from whence the fog doth rise, 
To vitiate thy beam ; so that once more 
He may put forth His hand 'gainst such as drive 
Their traffic in that sanctuary, whose walls 
With miracles and martyrdoms were built. 

Ye host of heaven, whose glory I survey ! 

beg ye grace for those that are, on earth, 
All after ill example gone astray. 

War once had for his instrument the sword : 

But now 'tis made, taking the bread away, 

Which the good Father locks from none. — And thou, 

That writest but to cancel, think, that they, 

Who for the vineyard, which thou wastest, died, 

Peter and Paul, live yet, and mark thy doings. 

Thou hast good cause to cry, " My heart so cleaves 

To him, that lived in solitude remote, 

And for a dance was dragged to martyrdom, 

1 wist not of the fisherman nor Paul."* 
Before my sight appeared, with open wings, 
The beauteous image ; in fruition sweet, 
Gladdening the thronged spirits. Each did seem 
A little ruby, whereon so intense 

The sunbeam glowed, that to mine eyes it came 
In clear refraction. And that, which next 
Befalls me to portray, voice hath not uttered, 

* Paradise, xv"»» 



i\ 



The Imperial Eagle. 375 

Nor hath ink written, nor in fantasy 

Was e'er conceived. For I beheld and heard 

The beak discourse ; and, what intention formed 

Of many, singly as of one express, 

Beginning: "For that I was just and piteous, 

I am exalted to this height of glory, 

The which no wish exceeds : and there on earth 

Have I my memory left, e'en by the bad 

Commended, while they leave its course untrod." 

Thus is one heat from many embers felt ; 
As in that image many were the loves, 
And one the voice that issued from them all : 
Whence I addressed them : " O perennial flowers 
Of gladness everlasting ! that exhale 
In single breath your odors manifold ; 
Breathe now : and let the hunger be appeased, 
That with great craving long hath held my soul, 
Finding no food on earth. This well I know ; 
That if there be in heaven a realm, that shows 
In faithful mirror the celestial Justice, 
Yours without veil reflects it. Ye discern 
The heed, wherewith I &o prepare myself 
To hearken ; ye, the doubt, that urges me 
With such inveterate craving." Straight I saw, 
Like to a falcon issuing from the hood, 
That rears his head, and claps him with his wings, 
His beauty and his eagerness bewraying ; 
So saw I move that stately sign, with praise 
Of grace divine inwoven, and high song 
Of inexpressive joy. 

Here the eagle discourses on the mystery of the 
Divine justice, and on the reason why man cannot 
fully understand it, He then concludes : — 



376 Tfo Imperial Eagle. 

€t O animals of clay ! O spirits gross ! 
The primal will, that in itself is good, 
Hath from itself the chief Good, ne'er been moved. 
Justice consists in consonance with it, 
Derivable by no created good, 
Whose very cause depends upon its beam." 

As on her nest the stork, that turns about 
Unto her young, whom lately she hath fed, 
Whiles they with upward eyes do look on her ; 
So lifted I my gaze ; and, bending so, 
The ever-blessed image waved its wings, 
Laboring with such deep counsel. Wheeling round 
It warbled, and did say : €€ As are my notes 
To thee, who understands them not ; such is 
The eternal judgment unto mortal ken." 

The eagle then inveighs against evil rulers, and ex- 
horts oppressed nations to rise against them :* 

When, disappearing from our hemisphere, 
The world's enlightener vanishes, and day 
On all sides wasteth ; suddenly the sky, 
Erewhile irradiate only with his beam, 
Is yet again unfolded, putting forth 
Innumerable lights wherein one shines. 
Of such vicissitude in heaven I thought; 
As the great sign, that marshalleth the world 
And the world's leaders, in the blessed beak 
Was silent : for that all those living lights, 
Waxing in splendor, burst forth into songs, 
Such as from memory glide and fall away. 

Sweet Love, that dost apparel thee in smiles ! 
How lustrous was thy semblance in those sparkles, 

* Paradise^ xix. 



tfhe Imperial Eagle, 377 

Which merely are from holy thoughts inspired. 

After the precious and bright beaming stones, 
That did ingem the sixth light, ceased the chiming 
Of their angelic bells ; methought I heard 
The murmuring of a river, that doth fall 
From rock to rock transpicuous, making known 
The richness of his spring-head : and as sound 
Of cittern, at the fret-board, or of pipe, 
Is, at the wind-hole, modulate and tuned; 
Thus up the neck, as it were hollow, rose 
That murmuring of the eagle ; and forthwith 
Voice there assumed ; and thence along the beak 
Issued in form of words, such as my heart 
Did look for, on whose tables I inscribed them. 

ce The part in me, that sees and bears the sun 
In mortal eagles," it began, " must now 
Be noted steadfastly : for, of the fires 
That figure me, those, glittering in mine eye, 
Are chief of all the greatest. This, that shines 
Midmost for pupil, was the same who sang 
The Holy Spirit's song, and bare about 
The ark from town to town : now doth he know 
The merit of his soul-impassioned strains 
By their well-fitted guerdon. Of the five, 
That make the circle of the vision, he, 
Who to the beak is nearest, comforted 
The widow for her son : now doth he know, 
How dear it costeth not to follow Christ ; 
Both from experience of this pleasant life, 
And of its opposite. He next, who follows 
In the circumference, for the over-arch, 
By true repenting slacked the pace of death : 
Now knoweth he, that the decrees of Heaven 



37 S TTie Imperial Eagle. 

Alter not, when, through pioas prayer below, 

To-day is made to-morrow's destiny. 

The c:her rYhc^-ir.r, with the iz~:s a::i me, 

To yield the shepherd room, passed o'er to Greece ; 

From good intent, producing evil fruit : 

Now knoweth he, how all the ill, derived 

From his well-doing, doth not harm him aught ; 

Though it have brought destruction on the world. 

That, which thou seest in the under bow, 

Was VN'illi^ir.j \vj-_:rr. :h:.: Iir.i re'vrhh. v.-j-.irh veers 

For Charles and Frederick living : now he knows, 

How well is loved in heaven the righteous king ; 

Which he betokens by his radiant seeming. 

Who, in the erring world beneath, would deem 

That Trojan Ripheus, in this round, was set, 

Fifth of the saintly splendors ? now he knows 

Enough of that, which the world cannot see ; 

The grace divine : albeit e'en his sight 

Reach not its utmost depth." Like to the lark, 

That warbling in the air expatiates long, 

Then, trilling oat his last sweet melody, 

D::rf, i;.:::.:e vri:h the sweetness : such appeared 

That image, stamped by the everlasting pleasure, 

Which fashions, as they are, all things that be. 

As Dante cannot understand how pagans are 
found in heaven, the eagle, seeing his doubts visible in 

his face, as colors are seen through glass, explains to 
him how justice may open the gates of the paradise 

even to those \vh: have died without baptism, and thus 
exclaims : — 

.... ft O how far removed, 
Predestination ! is thy root from such 



Saturn. 379 

As see not the First Cause entire ; and ye, 
O mortal men ! be wary how ye judge : 
For we, who see our Maker, know not yet 
The number of the chosen ; and esteem 
Such scantiness of knowledge our delight : 
For all our good is, in that primal good, 
Concentrate; and God's will and ours are one." 

So, by that form divine, was given to me 
Sweet medicine to clear and strengthen sight. 
And, as one handling skilfully the harp, 
Attendant on some skilful songster's voice, 
Bids the chord vibrate ; and therein the song 
Acquires more pleasure : so the whilst it spake, 
It doth remember me, that I beheld 
The pair of blessed luminaries move, 
Like the accordant twinkling of two eyes, 
Their beamy circlets, dancing to the sounds.* 

Again mine eyes were fixed on Beatrice ; 
And, with mine eyes, my soul, that in her looks 
Found all contentment. Yet no smile she wore : 
And, ee Did I smile," quoth she, " thou wouldst be 

straight 
Like Semele when into ashes turned : 
For, mounting these eternal palace-stairs, 
My beauty, which the loftier it climbs, 
As thou hast noted, still doth kindle more, 
So shines, that, were no tempering interposed, 
Thy mortal puissance would from its rays 
Shrink, as the leaf doth from the thunderbolt. 
Into the Seventh Splendor are we wafted, 
That underneath the burning lion's breast 
Beams in this hour commingled with his might." 

* Paradiso, xx. 



..; 



380 St. Pier Damiano. 

.... I saw reared up. 
In color like to sun-illumined gold, 
A ladder, which my ken pursued in vain, 
So lofty was the summit ; down whose steps 
I saw the splendors in such multitude 
Descending, every light in heaven, methought, 
Was shed thence. As the rooks, at dawn of day, 
Bestirring them to dry their feathers chill, 
Some speed their way a-field ;' and homeward some 
Returning, cross their flight; while some abide, 
And wheel around their airy lodge : so seemed 
That glitterance, wafted on alternate wing, 
As upon certain stair it came, and clashed 
Its shining. And one, lingering near us, waxed 
So bright, that in my thought I said, " The love, 
Which this betokens me, t admits no doubt." 

The spirit explains to Dante that the music in this 
planet is silent, because his mortal ears would not be 
able to bear it. He reveals himself as St. Pier Darni- 
ano, of Ravenna, a cardinal of the eleventh century, 
known for his religious zeal and devotion. 

ce 'Twixt either shore 
Of Italy, nor distant from thy land, 
A stony ridge ariseth ; in such sort, 
The thunder doth not lift his voice so high. 
They call it Catria : at whose foot, a cell 
Is sacred to the lonely Eremite ; 
For worship set apart and holy rites." 
A third time thus it spake ; then added : " There 
So firmly to God's service I adhered, 
That with no costlier viands than the juice 
Of olives, easily I passed the heats 



The Luxury of the Priests. 



381 



Of summer and the winter frosts : content 

In heavenward musings. Rich were the returns 

And fertile, which that cloister once was used 

To render to these heavens : now 'tis fallen 

Into a waste so empty, that ere long 

Detection must lay bare its vanity. 

Pietro Damiano there was I yclept : 

Pietro the sinner, when before I dwelt, 

Beside the Adriatic, in the house 

Of our blest Lady. Near upon my close 

Of mortal life, through much importuning 

I was constrained to wear the hat, that still 

From bad to worse is shifted. — Cephas came ; 

He came, who was the Holy Spirit's vessel ; 

Barefoot and lean ; eating their bread, as chanced, 

At the first table. Modern Shepherds need 

Those who on either hand may prop and lead them, 

So burly are they grown ; and from behind, 

Others to hoist them. Down the palfrey's sides 

Spread their broad mantles, so as both the beasts 

Are covered with one skin. O patience ! thou 

That look'st on this, and dost endure so long." 

I at those accents saw the splendors down 
From step to step alight, and wheel, and wax, 
Each circuiting, more beautiful. Round this 
They came, and stayed them ; uttered then a shout 
So loud, it hath no likeness here : nor I 
Wist what it spake, so deafening was the thunder.* 

Astounded, to the guardian of my steps 
I turned me, like the child, who always runs 
Thither for succor, where he trusteth most : 
And she was like the mother, who her son 



* Paradiso, xxi. 



^82 St. Benedict. 

Beholding pale and breathless, with her voice 
Soothes him, and he is cheered ; for thus she spake, 
Soothing me : " Know'st not thou, thou art in heaven ? 
And know'st not thou, whatever is in heaven, 
Is holy; and that nothing there is done, 
But is done zealously and well ? Deem now, 
What change in thee the song, and what my smile 
Had wrought, since thus the shout had power to move 
thee." 

Looking on, as he is directed by Beatrice, Dante 
sees — 

A hundred little spheres, that fairer grew 
By interchange of splendor. I remained, 
As one, who fearful of o'ermuch presuming, 
Abates in him the keenness of desire, 
Nor dares to question ; when, amid those pearls, 
One largest and most lustrous onward drew, 
That it might yield contentment to my wish ; 
And, from within it, these the sounds I heard. 

" If thou, like me, beheld'st the charity 
That burns among us ; what thy mind conceives, 
Were uttered. But that, ere the lofty bound 
Thou reach, expectance may not weary thee ; 
I will make answer even to the thought, 
Which thou hast such respect of. In old days, 
That mountain, at whose side Cassino rests, 
Was, on its height, frequented by a race 
Deceived and ill-disposed : and I it was, 
Who thither carried first the name of Him, 
Who brought the soul-subliming truth to man. 
And such a speeding grace shone over me, 
That from their impious worship I reclaimed 



St. Benedict. 383 

The dwellers round about, who with the world 
Were in delusion lost. These other flames, 
The spirits of men contemplative, were all 
Enlivened by that warmth, whose kindly force 
Gives birth to flowers and fruits of holiness. 
Here is Macarius ; Romoaldo here ; 
And here my brethren, who their steps refrained 
Within the cloisters, and held firm their heart." 

The poet asks the spirit of St. Benedict if he may 
obtain the favor of gazing upon his image unveiled : — 

"Brother!" he thus rejoined, cc in the last sphere 
Expect completion of thy lofty aim ; 
For there on each desire completion waits, 
And there on mine ; where every aim is found 
Perfect, entire, and for fulfilment ripe. 
There all things are as they have ever been : 
For space is none to bound ; nor pole divides. 
Our ladder reaches even to that clime ; 
And so, at giddy distance, mocks thy view. 
Thither the patriarch Jacob saw it stretch 
Its topmost round ; when it appeared to him 
With angels laden. But to mount it now 
None lifts his foot from earth : and hence my rule 
Is left a profitless stain upon the leaves ; 
The walls, for abbey reared, turned into dens ; 
The cowls, to sacks choked up with musty meal. 
Foul usury doth not more lift itself 
Against God's pleasure, than that fruit, which makes 
The hearts of monks so wanton : for whate'er 
Is in the Church's keeping, all pertains 
To such, as sue for Heaven's sweet sake ; and not 
To those, who in respect of kindred claim, 



I 



384 c £he Fixed Stars. 

Or on more vile allowance. Mortal flesh 

Is grown so dainty, good beginnings last not 

From the oak's birth unto the acorn's setting. 

His convent Peter founded without gold 

Or silver ; I, with prayers and fasting, mine ; 

And Francis, his in meek humility. 

And if thou note the point, whence each proceed^ 

Then look what it hath erred to ; thou shalt find 

The white grown murky. Jordan was turned back, 

And a less wonder, than the refluent sea, 

May, at God's pleasure, work amendment here." 

So saying, to his assembly back he drew : 
And they together clustered into one ; 
Then all rolled upward, like an eddying wind. 

The sweet dame beckoned me to follow them : 
And, by that influence only, so prevailed 
Over my nature, that no natural motion, 
Ascending or descending here below, 
Had, as I mounted, with my pennon vied. 

Dante and his guide now reach the eighth sphere, 
that of the fixed stars, and he takes his place in the 
constellation of the Twins, under which he was born. 

" Thou art so near the sum of blessedness," 
Said Beatrice, "that behooves thy ken 
Be vigilant and clear. And, to this end, 
Or ever thou advance thee further, hence 
Look downward, and contemplate, what a world 
Already stretched under our feet there lies : 
So as thy heart may, in its blithest mood, 
Present itself to the triumphal throng, 
Which through the ethereal concave, comes rejoicing." 

I straight obeyed; and with mine eye returned 



The triumph of Christ. 385 

Through all the seven spheres ; and saw this globe 

So pitiful of semblance, that perforce 

It moved my smiles : and him in truth I hold 

For wisest, who esteems it least ; whose thoughts 

Elsewhere are fixed, him worthiest call and best. 

I saw the daughter of Latona shine 

Without the shadow, whereof late I deemed 

That dense and rare were cause. Here I sustained 

The visage, Hyperion, of thy son ; 

And marked, how near him with their circles, round 

Move Maia and Dione ; here discerned 

Jove's tempering 'twixt his sire and son; and hence 

Their changes and their various aspects, 

Distinctly scanned. Nor might I not descry 

Of all the seven, how bulky each, how swift ; 

Nor, of their several distances, not learn. 

This petty area (o'er the which we stride 

So fiercely), as along the eternal Twins 

I wound my way, appeared before me all, 

Forth from the havens stretched unto the hills. 

Then, to the beauteous eyes, mine eyes returned.* 

As they ascend higher and higher, Dante beholds 
Beatrice growing in beauty and splendor ; but now a 
greater light appears and illumines the heavenly sphere. 
Beatrice is looking southward, from whence it ap- 
proaches. 

E'en as the bird, who midst the leafy bower 
Has, in her nest, sat darkling through the night, 
With her sweet brood ; impatient to descry 
Their wished looks, and to bring home their food, 

* Paradiso, xxii. 
34 



386 ^he triumph of Christ. 

In the fond quest unconscious of her toil : 
She, of the time prevenient, on the spray, 
That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze 
Expects the sun ; nor ever, till the dawn, 
Removeth from the east her eager ken : 
So stood the dame erect, and bent her glance 
Wistfully on that region, where the sun 
Abateth most his speed ; that, seeing her 
Suspense and wondering, I became as one, 
In whom desire is wakened, and the hope 
Of somewhat new to come fills with delight. 

Short space ensued ; I was not held, I say, 
Long in expectance, when I saw the heaven 
Wax more and more resplendent ; and ' s Behold," 
Cried Beatrice, ce the triumphal hosts 
Of Christ, and all the harvest gathered in, 
Made ripe by these revolving spheres." Meseemed, 
That, while she spake, her image all did burn ; 
And in her eyes such fulness was of joy, 
As I am fain to pass unconstrued by. 

As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles, 
In peerless beauty, mid the eternal nymphs, 
That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound ; 
In bright pre-eminence so saw I there 
O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew 
Their radiance, as from ours the starry train : 
And, through the living light, so lustrous glowed 
The substance, that my ken endured it not. 

O Beatrice ! sweet and precious guide, 
Who cheered me with her comfortable words : 
" Against the virtue, that o'erpowereth thee^ 
Avails not to resist. Here is the Might, 
And here the Wisdom, which did open lay 
The path, that had been yearned for so long, 



1 



T?he "Triumph of Christ. 387 

Betwixt the heaven and earth." Like to the fire, 
That, in a cloud imprisoned, doth break out 
Expansive, so that from its womb enlarged, 
It falleth against nature to the ground ; 
Thus, in that heavenly banqueting, my soul 
Outgrew herself; and, in the transport lost, 
Holds now remembrance none of what she was. 

ci Ope thou thine eyes, and mark me : thou hast seen 
Things, that empower thee to sustain my smile." 

I was as one, when a forgotten dream 
Doth come across him, and he strives in vain 
To shape it in his fantasy again : 
When as that gracious boon was proffered me, 
Which never may be cancelled from the book 
Wherein the past is written. Now were all 
Those tongues to sound, that have, on sweetest milk 
Of Polyhymnia and her sisters, fed 
And fattened ; not with all their help to boot, 
Unto the thousandth parcel of the truth, 
My song might shadow forth that saintly smile, 
How merely, in her saintly looks, it wrought. 
And, with such figuring of Paradise, 
The sacred strain must leap, like one that meets 
A sudden interruption to his road. 
But he, who thinks how ponderous the theme, 
And that 'tis laid upon a mortal shoulder, 
May pardon, if it tremble with the burden. 
The track, our venturous keel must furrow, brooks 
No unribbed pinnace, no self-sparing pilot. 

Beatrice bids Dante turn and behold the Word Di- 
vine made incarnate. Christ, with the Virgin Mary by 
his side, amidst an innumerable host of angels and 
saints, descends from the Empyrean. 



388 The Triumph of Mary. 

. ... As ere while, 
Through glance of sunlight, streamed through broken 

cloud, 
Mine eyes a flower-besprinkled mead have seen ; 
, Though veiled themselves in shade : so saw I there 
Legions of splendors, on whom burning rays 
Shed lightnings from above ; yet saw I not 
The fountain whence they flowed. O gracious virtue ! 
Thou, whose broad stamp is on them, higher up 
Thou didst exalt thy glory, to give room 
To my o'erlabored sight. 

While the divine light retires upward, to enable the 
eyes of Dante to endure the vision, he beholds the 
triumph of the Virgin Mary, crowned by the angel 
Gabriel. When at the name 

Of that fair flower, whom duly I invoke 

Both morn and eve, my soul with all her might 

Collected, on the goodliest ardor fixed. 

And, as the bright dimensions of the star 

In heaven excelling, as once here on earth, 

Were, in my eye-balls livelily portrayed ; 

Lo ! from within the sky a cresset fell, 

Circling in fashion of a diadem ; 

And girt the star ; and, hovering, round it wheeled. 

Whatever melody sounds sweetest here, 
And draws the spirit most unto itself, 
Ivlight seem a rent cloud, when it grates the thunder ; 
Compared unto the sounding of that lyre, 
Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays 
The floor of heaven, was crowned. " Angelic Love 
I am, who thus with hovering flight en wheel 



The Prayer of Beatrice. 389 

The lofty rapture from that womb inspired, 
Where our desire did dwell : and round thee so, 
Lady of Heaven ! will hover ; long as thou 
Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy 
Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere." 

Such close was to the circling melody : 
And, as it ended, all the other lights 
Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name. 
The robe that with its regal folds enwraps 
The world, and with the nearer breath of God 
Doth burn and quiver, held so far retired 
Its inner hem and skirting over us, 
That yet no glimmer of its majesty 
Had streamed unto me; therefore were mine eyes 
Unequal to pursue the crowned flame 
That towering rose, and sought the seed it bore. 
And like to babe, that stretches forth its arms 
For very eagerness toward the breast, 
After the milk is taken ; so outstretched 
Their wavy summits all the fervent band, 
Through zealous love to Mary : then, in view. 
There halted ; and " Regina Cceli " sang 
So sweetly, the delight hath left me never.* 

Beatrice thus addresses the spirits : — 

" O ye ! in chosen fellowship advanced 
To the great supper of the blessed Lamb, 
Whereon who feeds hath every wish fulfilled ; 
If to this man through God's grace be vouchsafed 
Foretaste of that, which from your table falls, 
Or ever death his fated term prescribe ; 
Be ye not heedless of his urgent will : 



* Paradiso, xxiii. 



34* 



390 St. Feter. 

But may some influence of your sacred dews 

Sprinkle him. Of the fount ye alway drink, 

Whence flows what most he craves." Beatrice spake; 

And the rejoicing spirits, like to spheres 

On firm-set poles revolving, trailed a blaze 

Of comet splendor : and as wheels, that wind 

Their circles in the horologe, so work 

The stated rounds, that to the observant eye 

The first seems still, and as it flew, the last ; 

E'en thus their carols weaving variously, 

They, by the measure paced, or swift, or slow, 

Made me to rate the riches of their joy. 

The brightest flame, the spirit of St. Peter, now issues 
forth from the circle, and sings a song so divine, that 
the fancy of the poet cannot record it. The spirit then 
addresses Beatrice : — 

" O saintly sister mine ! thy prayer devout 
Is with so vehement affection urged, 
Thou dost unbind me from that beauteous sphere." 

Beatrice prays St. Peter to examine Dante on his 
religious faith, that he may be able to exalt it more. 
Accordingly, the Chief of the Apostles asks him to de- 
clare what is faith. The poet raises his forehead to 
the light which had spoken, then turns to Beatrice, 
and, meeting approval in her looks, he defines faith in 
the words of St. Paul : — 

Faith of things hoped is substance, and the proof 
Of things not seen : and herein doth consist, 
Me thinks, its essence. . 



Religious Faith. 



391 



He explains the definition ; says that his conviction 
perfectly corresponds to his profession, and that he de- 
rived it from the Spirit of God, which speaks through 
the Old and the New Testament. St. Peter asks him 
how he knows that the Bible is the voice of Heaven, 
to which he replies that he knows it from the works 
which were not made by Nature — that is, from mira- 
cles. The Apostle catechises him further, and asks 
him how he knows that the miracles were such as they 
pretended to be — that is, true and divine : — 



" That all the world," said I, " should have been turned 
To Christian, and no miracle been wrought, 
Would in itself be such a miracle, 
The rest were not an hundredth part so great. 
E'en thou went'st forth in poverty and hunger 
To set the goodly plant, that, from the vine 
It once was, now is grown unsightly bramble." 

The poet then thus unfolds his creed : — 

"I in one God believe; 
One sole eternal Godhead, of whose love 
All Heaven is moved, himself unmoved the while. 
Nor demonstration physical alone, 
Or more intelligential and abstruse, 
Persuades me to this faith : but from that truth 
Jt cometh to me rather, which is shed 
Through Moses ; the rapt Prophets ; and the Psalms ; 
The Gospel ; and what ye yourselves did write, 
When ye were gifted of the Holy Ghost. 
In three eternal Persons I believe ; 



392 St. James. 

Essence threefold and one ; mysterious league 
Of union absolute, which, many a time, 
The word of gospel lore upon my mind 
Imprints : and from this germ, this firstling spark, 
The lively flame dilates ; and, like heaven's star, 
Doth glitter in me." As the master hears, 
Well pleased, and then enfoldeth in his arms 
The servant, who hath joyful tidings brought, 
And having told the errand keeps his peace ; 
Thus benediction uttering with song, 
Soon as my peace I held, compassed me thrice 
The apostolic radiance, whose behest 
Had oped my lips : so well their answer pleased.* 

Conscious of the importance of this consecration, he 
hopes soon to return to Florence, to claim the poet's 
crown there. 

.... For I there 
First entered on the faith, which maketh souls 
Acceptable to God : and, for its sake, 
Peter had then circled my forehead thus. 

Next from the same circle a light, the spirit of St. 
James, moves towards St. Peter : — 

As when the ring-dove by his mate alights ; 
In circles, each about the other wheels, 
And, murmuring, coos his fondness : thus saw I 
One, of the other great and glorious prince, 
With kindly greeting, hailed ,• extolling, both, 
Their heavenly banqueting : but when an end 
Was to their gratulation, silent, each, 

* Paradiso, xxiv. 



Hope. 393 

Before me sat they down, so burning bright, 
I could not look upon them. 

Beatrice addresses St. James, and urges him to exalt 
the praise of hope. The Apostle asks Dante what he 
means by hope. Beatrice says : — 

" Among her sons, not one more full of hope, 
Hath the Church militant : so 'tis of him 
Recorded in the sun, whose liberal orb 
Enlighteneth all our tribe : and ere his term 
Of warfare, hence permitted he is come, 
From Egypt to Jerusalem, to see. 
The other points, both which thou hast inquired, 
Not for more knowledge, but that he may tell 
How dear thou hold'st the virtue; these to him 
Leave I : for he may answer thee with ease, 
And without boasting, so God give him grace." 

The poet now answers the question : — 

" Hope," said I, 

" Is of the joy to come a sure expectance, 

The effect of grace divine and merit preceding. 

This light from many a star, visits my heart ; 

But flowed to me, the first, from him who sang 

The songs of the Supreme ; himself supreme 

Among his tuneful brethren, f Let all hope 

In thee,' so spake his anthem, c who have known 

Thy name ; and, with my faith, who know not that ? 

From thee, the next, distilling from his spring, 

In thine epistle, fell on me the drops 

So plenteously, that I on others shower 

The influence of their dew=" Whileas I spake, 



394 # £ J ohn - 

A lamping, as of quick and volleyed lightning, 

Within the bosom of that mighty sheen 

Played tremulous ; then forth these accents breathed : 

" Love for the virtue, which attended me 

E'en to the palm, and issuing from the field, 

Glows vigorous yet within me ; and inspires 

To ask of thee, whom also it delights, 

What promise thou from hope, in chief, dost win." — 

" Both Scriptures, new and ancient," I replied, 

" Propose the mark (which even now I view) 

For souls beloved of God. Isaias saith, 

e That, in their own land, each one must be clad 

In twofold vesture,' and their proper land 

Is this delicious life. In terms more full, 

And clearer far, thy brother hath set forth 

This revelation to us, where he tells 

Of the white raiment destined to the saints." 

And as the words were ending, from above, 

"They hope in thee !" first heard we cried; whereto 

Answered the carols all. 

The spirit of St. John now appears : 

Like as a virgin riseth up, and goes, 
And enters on the mazes of the dance ; 
Though gay, yet innocent of worse intent, 
Than to do fitting honor to the bride : 
So I beheld the new effulgence come 
Unto the other two, who in a ring 
Wheeled, as became their rapture. In the dance, 
And in the song:, it mingled. And the dame 
Held on them fixed her looks ; e'en as the spouse, 
Silent, and moveless. " This is he, who lay 
Upon the bosom of our pelican : 



Charity. 395 

This he, into whose keeping, from the cross, 
The mighty charge was given." Thus she spake ; 
Yet therefore naught the more removed her sight 
From marking them : or e'er her words began, 
Or when they closed. As he, who looks intent, 
And strives with searching ken, how he may see 
The sun in his eclipse, and, through desire 
Of seeing, loseth power of sight ; so I 
Peered on that last resplendence, while I heard : 
" Why dazzlest thou thine eyes in seeking that, 
Which here abides not ? Earth my body is, 
In earth ; and shall be, with the rest, so long, . 
As till our number equal the decree 
Of the Most High. The two that have ascended, 
In this our blessed cloister, shine alone 
With the two garments. So report below." 

As when, for ease of labor, or to shun 
Suspected peril, at a whistle's breath, 
The oars, erewhile dashed frequent in the wave, 
All rest : the flamy circle at that voice 
So rested ; and the mingling sound was still, 
Which from the trinal band, soft-breathing, rose. 
I turned, but ah ! how trembled in my thought, 
When, looking at my side again to see 
Beatrice, I descried her not ; although, 
Not distant, on the happy coast she stood.* 

St. John examines the poet on charity, on its nature 
and its motives, arising both from the intellect and the 
heart. Meantime, the spirit of Adam appears, shining 
through a bright star ; and the poet bows to it, like the 
leaf— 

* Paradiso, xxv. 



396 St. Peter's Invective. 

That bows its lithe top till the blast is blown ; 
By its own virtue reared, then stands aloof. 

In compliance with the wishes of Dante, Adam re- 
lates when he was placed in the terrestrial paradise, 
how long he remained there, the language which he 
spoke, and the real cause of his expulsion.* 

Then " Glory to the Father, to the Son, 
And to the Holy Spirit !" rang aloud 
Throughout all Paradise ; that with the song 
My spirit reeled, so passing sweet the strain. 
And what I saw was equal ecstasy : 
One universal smile it seemed of all things; 
Joy past compare ; gladness unutterable ; 
Imperishable life of peace and love ; 
Exhaustless riches, and unmeasured bliss. 

The lights in which St. Peter, St. James, St. John, 
and Adam are embodied, shine before him ; and now 
that of St. Peter begins to wax in brightness, and from 
its white appearance is transformed into a red flame. 
A universal silence reigns through the sphere, and forth 
from the flame the following words resound : — 

ei Wonder not, if my hue 
Be changed ; for, while I speak, these shalt thou see 
All in like manner change with me. My place 
He who usurps on earth (my place, ay, mine, 
Which in the presence of the Son of God 
Is void), the same hath made my cemetery 
A common sewer of puddle and of blood : 

* Paradiso, xxvi. 



St. Peter's Invective. 397 

The more below his triumph, who from hence 
Malignant fell." Such color, as the sun, 
At eve or morning, paints an adverse cloud, 
Then saw I sprinkled over all the sky. 
And as the unblemished dame, who, in herself 
Secure of censure, yet at bare report 
Of other's failing, shrinks with maiden fear ; 
So Beatrice, in her semblance, changed : 
And such eclipse in heaven, methinks, was seen, 
When the Most Holy suffered. Then the words 
Proceeded, with voice, altered from itself 
So clean, the semblance did not alter more : 
' ' Not to this end was Christ's spouse with my blood, 
With that of Linus, and of Cletus, fed ; 
That she might serve for purchase of base gold : 
But for the purchase of this happy life, 
Did Sextus, Pius, and Callixtus bleed, 
And Urban ; they, whose doom was not without 
Much weeping sealed. No purpose was of ours, 
That on the right hand of our successors, 
Part of the Christian people should be set, 
And part upon their left ; nor that the keys, 
Which were vouchsafed me, should for ensign serve 
Unto the banners, that do levy war 
On the baptized ; nor I, for sigil-mark, 
Set upon sold and lying privileges : 
Which makes me oft to bicker and turn red. 
In shepherd's clothing, greedy wolves below 
Range wide o'er all the pastures. Arm of God ! 
Why longer sleep'st thou ? Cahorsines and Gascons 
Prepare to quaff our blood. O good beginning ! 
To what a vile conclusion must thou stoop ! 
But the high providence, which did defend, 
35 



398 Hhe Angelic Orders. 

Through Scipio, the world's empery for Rome, 
Will not delay its succor : and thou, son, 
Who through thy mortal weight shalt yet again 
Return below, open thy lips, nor hide 
What is by me not hidden." 

The poet continues to revolve with the constellation 
of the Twins, from which he looks down upon the 
earth. He then ascends to the Primum Mobile, the 
sphere which imparts movement to the planets below. 
Beatrice explains the functions which belong to this 
heaven, and takes occasion to rebuke mankind for its 
vices, placing the responsibility, however, on bad gov- 
ernments ; she then foretells the advent of better times. * 

The poet, taking strength from the eyes of Beatrice, 
looks upward to the Empyrean, and beholds a point 
darting so sharp light, that no mortal eye can bear it. 
Around this central light are nine circles of fire, and 
each — 

As more in number distant from the first, 

Was tardier in motion : and that glowed 

With flame most pure, that to the sparkle of truth 

Was nearest ; as partaking most, methinks, 

Of its reality. 

These circles are the abodes of the nine orders of an- 
gels, and they revolve around the Deity with varying 
motions, proportioned to their love. Beatrice discourses 
on the Divine essence and on the angels, and explains 

* Paradiso, xxvii. 



Reprehension of Certain Preachers. 399 

some apparent opposition between the order of the Em- 
pyrean and the economy of the cosmos.* 

Beatrice speaks of the creation, and of the relation 
of the universe to the Creator. She rebukes the vanity 
and ignorance of the theologians, who presume to speak 
of things which are beyond their understanding. She 
also animadverts upon those preachers who, rather than 
preach the morals of the Gospel, delight to dwell on 
the creations of their own fancy : — 

" So that men, thus at variance with the truth, 
Dream, though their eyes be open, reckless some 
Of error ; others well aware they err, 
To whom more guilt and shame are justly due. 
Each the known track of sage philosophy 
Deserts, and has a by-way of his own : 
So much the restless eagerness to shine, 
And love of singularity, prevail. 
Yet this, offensive as it is, provokes 
Heaven's anger less, than when the Book of God 
Is forced to yield to man's authority, 
Or from its straightness warped : no reckoning made 
What blood the sowing of it in the world 
Has cost; what favor for himself he wins, 
Who meekly clings to it. The aim of all 
Is how to shine : e'en they, whose office is 
To preach the Gospel, let the Gospel sleep, 
And pass their own inventions off instead. 
One tells, how at Christ's suffering the wan moon 
Bent back her steps, and shadowed o'er the sun 
With intervenient disk, as she withdrew : 

* Paradiso, xxviii. 



400 The Empyrean. 

Another, how the light shrouded itself 
Within its tabernacle, and left dark 
The Spaniard, and the Indian, with the Jew. 
Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears, 
Bandied about more frequent, than the names 
-Of Bindi and of Lapi in her streets. 
The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, return 
From pasture, fed with wind : and what avails 
For their excuse, they do not see their harm ? 
Christ said not to His first conventicle, 
€ Go forth and preach impostures to the world,' 
But gave them truth to build on ; and the sound 
Was mighty on their lips : nor needed they, 
Beside the Gospel, other spear or shield, 
To aid them in their warfare for the faith. 
The preacher now provides himself with store 
Of jests and gibes ; and, so there be no lack 
Of laughter, while he vents them, his big cowl 
Distends, and he has won the meed he sought : 
Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the while 
Of that dark bird which nestles in his hood, 
They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said, 
Which now the dotards hold in such esteem. 
That every counterfeit, who spreads abroad 
The hands of holy promise, finds a throng 
Of credulous fools beneath. St. Anthony 
Fattens with this his swine, and others worse 
Than swine, who diet at his lazy board, 
Paying with unstamped metal for their fare."* 

Noon's fervid hour perchance six thousand miles 
From hence is distant ; and the shadowy cone 
Almost to level on our earth declines ; 

* Paradiso, xxix. 



tfhe Empyrean. 40 1 

When, from the midmost of this blue abyss, 
By turns some star is to our vision lost. 
And straightway as the handmaid of the sun 
Puts forth her radiant brow, all, light by light, 
Fade ; and the spangled firmament shuts in, 
E'en to the loveliest of the glittering throng. 
Thus vanished gradually from my sight 
The triumph, which plays ever round the point, 
That overcame me, seeming (for it did) 
Engirt by that it girdeth. Wherefore love, 
With loss of other object, forced me bend 
Mine eyes on Beatrice once again. 

If all, that hitherto is told of her, 
Were in one praise concluded, 'twere too weak 
To furnish out this turn. Mine eyes did look 
On beauty, such, as I believe in sooth, 
Not merely to exceed our human ; but, 
That save its Maker, none can to the full 
Enjoy it. At this point o'erpowered I fail; 
Unequal to my theme ; as never bard 
Of buskin or of sock hath failed before. 
For as the sun doth to the feeblest sight, 
E'en so remembrance of that witching smile 
Hath dispossessed my spirit of itself. 
Not from that day, when on this earth I first 
Beheld her charms, up to that view of them, 
Have I with song applausive ever ceased 
To follow ; but now follow them no more ; 
My course here bounded, as each artist's is, 
When it doth touch the limit of his skill. 

She (such as I bequeath her to the bruit 
Of louder trump than mine, which hasteneth on 5 
Urging its arduous matter to the close) 
35* 



402 The Triumph of the Blessed. 

Her words resumed, in gesture and in voice 
Resembling one accustomed to command : 
<( Forth from the last corporeal are we come 
Into the heaven, that is unbodied light ; 
Light intellectual, replete with love ; 
Love of true happiness, replete with joy; 
Joy, that transcends all sweetness of delight. 
Here shalt thou look on either mighty host 
Of Paradise ; and one in that array, 
Which in the final judgment thou shalt see." 

As when the lightning, in a sudden spleen 
Unfolded, dashes from the blinding eyes 
The visive spirits, dazzled and bedimmed; 
So, round about me, fulminating streams 
Of living radiance played, and left me swathed 
And veiled in dense impenetrable blaze. 
Such weal is in the love, that stills this heaven ; 
For its own flame the torch thus fitting ever. 

No sooner to my listening ear had come 
The brief assurance, than I understood 
New virtue into me infused, and sight 
Kindled afresh, with vigor to sustain 
Excess of light, however pure. I looked; 
And, in the likeness of a river, saw 
Light flowing, from whose amber-seeming waves 
Flashed up effulgence, as they glided on 
'Twixt banks, on either side, painted with spring, 
Incredible how fair : and, from the tide, 
There ever and anon, outstarting, flew 
Sparkles instinct with life ; and in the flowers 
Did set them, like to rubies chased in gold : 
Then, as if drunk with odors, plunged again 
Into the wondrous flood ; from which, as one 



Tike Court of Heaven. 403 

Re-entered, still another rose. " The thirst 

Of knowledge high, whereby thou art inflamed 

To search the meaning of what here thou seest, 

The more it warms thee, pleases me the more. 

But first behooves thee of this water drink, 

Or e'er that longing be allayed." So spake 

The daystar of mine eyes : then thus subjoined: 

" This stream ; and these, forth issuing from its gul£ 

And diving back, a living topaz each ; 

With all this laughter on its bloomy shores, 

Are but a preface, shadowy of the truth 

They emblem : not that, in themselves, the things 

Are crude ; but on thy part is the defect, 

For that thy views not yet aspire so high." 

Never did babe that had outslept his wont, 
Rush, with such eager straining, to the milk, 
As I toward the water ; bending me, 
To make the better mirrors of mine eyes 
In the refining wave : and as the eaves 
Of mine eyelids did drink of it, forthwith 
Seemed it unto me turned from length to round. 
Then as a troop of maskers, when they put 
Their visors off, look other than before ; 
The counterfeited semblance thrown aside : 
So into greater jubilee were changed 
Those flowers and sparkles ; and distinct I saw, 
Before me, either court of heaven displayed. 

O prime enlightener ! thou who gavest me strength 
On the high triumph of thy realm to gaze ; 
Grant virtue now to utter what I kenned. 

There is in heaven a light, whose goodly shine 
Makes the Creator visible to all 
Created, that in seeing Him alone 



404 ^he Court of Heaven. 

Have peace ; and in a circle spreads' so far, 

That the circumference were too loose a zone 

To girdle in the sun. All is one beam, 

Reflected from the summit of the first, 

That moves, which being hence and vigor takes. 

And as some cliff, that from the bottom eyes 

His image mirrored in the crystal flood, 

As if to admire his brave apparelling 

Of verdure and of flowers ; so, round about, 

Eying the light, on more than million thrones, 

Stood, eminent, whatever from our earth 

Has to the skies returned. How wide the leaves, 

Extended to their utmost, of this rose, 

Whose low r est step embosoms such a space 

Of ample radiance ! Yet, nor amplitude 

Nor height impeded, but my view with ease 

Took in the full dimensions of that joy. 

Near or remote, what there avails, where God 

Immediate rules, and Nature, awed, suspends 

Her sway ? Into the yellow of the rose 

Perennial, which, in bright expansiveness, 

Lays forth its gradual blooming, redolent 

Of praises to the never- wintering sun, 

As one, who fain would speak, yet holds his peace, 

Beatrice led me; and, " Behold," she said, 

" This fair assemblage ; stoles of snowy white, 

How numberless ! The city, where we dwell, 

Behold how vast ! and these our seats so thronged, 

Few now are wanting here. In that proud stall, 

On which, the crown, already o'er its state 

Suspended, holds thine eyes — or e'er thyself 

Mayst at the wedding sup, — shall rest the soul 

Of the great Harry, he who, by the world 



The Court of Heaven. 405 

Augustus hailed, to Italy must come, 

Before her day be ripe. But ye are sick, 

And in your tetchy wantonness as blind, 

As is the bantling, that of hunger dies, 

And drives away the nurse. Nor may it be, 

That he, who in the sacred forum sways, 

Openly or in secret, shall with him 

Accordant walk : whom God will not endure 

P the holy office long ; but thrust him down 

To Simon Magus, where Alagna's priest 

Will sink beneath him : such will be his meed."* 

The innumerable hosts of angels hover around the 
immense snow-white rose, and like a troop of bees — 

Amid the vernal sweets alighting now, 
Now, clustering, where their fragrant labor glows, 
Flew downward to the mighty flower, or rose 
From the redundant petals, streaming back 
Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. 
Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold ; 
The rest was whiter than the driven snow ; 
And, as they flitted down into the flower, 
From range to range, fanning their plumy loins, 
Whispered the peace and ardor which they won 
From that soft winnowing. Shadow none, the vast 
Interposition of such numerous flight 
Cast, from above, upon the flower, or view 
Obstructed aught. For, through the universe, 
Wherever merited, celestial light 
Glides freely, and no obstacle prevents. 

All there, who reign in safety and in bliss, 
Ages long past or new, on one sole mark 

* Paradiso, xxx. 



406 St. Be 

Their love and vision fixed. O trinal beam 
Of individual star a that chann'st them thus! 
Vouchsafe one glance to gild our storm below. 
If the grim brood, from Arctic shores that roamed 
(Where Helice forever, as she whec 
Sparkles a mother's fondness on her son), 
Stood in mate worder mid die w::\-:f ::'a::;.:. 
When to their view the Lateran ariie 
In greatness more than earthly- I, who then 
From human to divine had passed, from time 
Unto eternity, and out of Florence 
To justice and to truth, how might I choose 
But marvel too ? Twist gladness and amaze, 
In sooth, no will had I to utter aught, 
Or hear. And as a pilgrim, when he re 
Within the temple of his vow, looks round 
In breathles s m ; : tell 

Of all its zczzrr state ; e'en so mine eyes 
Coursed up and down along the living light, 
Now low, and now aloft, and now around, 
Vis::::;:; every step. Looks I beheld, 
Where charity in soft persuasion sat : 
Smiles from within and radiance from above; 
And in each gesture grace and honor high. 

The pcet here turns to speak to Beatrice, but she 

has disappeared ; and in her place he beholds bv his 
side a senior, robed, as the rest, in glory, his face glow- 
ing with joy and a father's love. Dante asks him 
where Beatrice is : — 

" By Beatrice summoned," he replied, 
" I come to aid thy wish. Looking aloft 
To the third circle from the highest, there 



The Virgin Mary. 407 

Behold her on her throne, whereon her merit 

Hath placed her." Answering not, mine eyes I raised, 

And saw her, where aloof she sat, her brow 

A wreath reflecting of eternal beams. 

Not from the centre of the sea so far 

Unto the region of the highest thunder, 

As was my ken from hers ; and yet the form 

Came through that medium down, unmixed and pure. 

He addresses a prayer to her, and she looks down on 
him and smiles. Now the senior reveals himself to be 
St. Bernard, who bids him look higher, on the sum- 
mit of the rose, where he will see the Virgin Mary, the 
Queen of Heaven, the apotheosis of womanhood. 

.... Straight mine eyes I raised ; and bright 
As, at the birth of morn, the eastern clime 
Above the horizon, where the sun declines ; 
So to mine eyes, that upward, as from vale 
To mountain sped, at the extreme bound, a part 
Excelled in lustre all the front opposed. 
And as the glow burns ruddiest o'er the wave, 
That waits the ascending team, which Phaeton 
111 knew to guide, and on each part the light 
Diminished fades, intensest in the midst ; 
So burned the peaceful oriflamb, and slacked 
On every side the living flame decayed. 
And in that midst their sportive pennons waved 
Thousands of angels ; in resplendence each 
Distinct, and quaint adornment. At their glee 
And carol, smiled the Lovely One of heaven, 
That joy was in the eyes of all the blest. 
Had I a tongue in eloquence as rich, 



408 The Virgin Mary. 

As is the coloring in Fancy's loom, 

'Twere all too poor to utter the least part 

Of that enchantment. When' he saw mine eyes 

Intent on her, that charmed him ; Bernard gazed 

With so exceeding fondness, as infused 

Ardor into my breast, unfelt before.* 

At the feet of the Holy Virgin, St. Bernard points 
out Eve, Rachel, Beatrice, Sarah, Judith, Rebecca, and 
Ruth : on one side, the saints who lived before the ad- 
vent of Christ ; on the other, those who came after 
Him. St. Bernard explains to Dante the causes of the 
different degrees of glory bestowed upon the saints, and 
then asks him to raise his eves again to the Virgin 
Mary, the visage most resembling the ideal of humani- 
ty, Christ ; for through her splendor only, the splendor 
of womanly loveliness and virtue, can man gain the 
power to reach perfection. Forthwith the poet saw 

Such floods of gladness on her visage showered, 

From holy spirits, winging that profound; 

That, whatsoever I had yet beheld, 

Had not so much suspended me with wonder, 

Or shown me such similitude of God. 

And he, who had to her descended, once, 

On earth, now hailed in heaven ; and on poised wing, 

' c Ave, Maria, Gratia Plena," sang : 

To whose sweet anthem all the blissful court, 

From all parts answering, rang : that holier joy 

Brooded the deep serene. 

% % * * # 

* Paradiso, xxxi. 



TJie Virgin Mary. 409 

" But (for the vision hasteneth to an end) 
Here break we of£ as the good workman doth, 
That shapes the cloak according to the cloth ; 
And to the primal love our ken shall rise ; 
That thou mayst penetrate the brightness, far 
As sight can bear thee. Yet, alas ! in sooth 
Beating thy pennons, thinking to advance, 
Thou backward fall'st. Grace then must first be gained ; 
Her grace, whose might can help thee. Thou in prayer 
Seek her : and, with affection, while I sue, 
Attend, and yield me all thy heart. " Fie said; 
And thus the saintly orison began. * 

The Paradiso closes with the apotheosis of man in 
God, the union of the human with the divine nature, 
obtained through the influence of the eternal Feminine, 
symbolized in the Holy Virgin, the ideal woman, at 
once the mother and the daughter of the race. Bor- 
rowing the language of the mediaeval Church, the poet 
thus causes St. Bernard to pray to her in his behalf: — 

" O Virgin Mother, daughter of thy Son ! 
Created beings all in lowliness 
Surpassing, as in height above them all ; 
Term by the eternal counsel preordained ; 
Ennobler of thy nature, so advanced 
In thee, that its great Maker did not scorn, 
To make Himself His own creation ; 
For in thy womb rekindling shone the love 
Revealed, whose genial influence makes now 
This flower to germin in eternal peace : 

* Paradiso, xxxii. 



410 Uie Deity. 

Here thou to us, of charity and love, 

Art, as the noonday torch ; and art, beneath, 

To mortal men, of hope a living spring. 

So mighty art thou, lady, and so great, 

Fhat he, who grace desire th, and comes not 

To thee for aidance, fain would have desire 

Fly without wings. Not only him, who asks, 

Thy bounty succors ; but doth freely oft 

Forerun the asking. Whatsoe'er may be 

Of excellence in creature, pity mild, 

Relenting mercy, large munificence, 

Are all combined in thee. Here kneeleth one, 

Who of ail spirits hath reviewed the state. 

From the world's lowest gap unto this height. 

Suppliant to thee he kneels, imploring grace 

For virtue yet more high, to lift his ken 

Toward the bliss supreme. And I, who ne'er 

Coveted sight, more fondly, for myself, 

Than now for him, my prayers to thee prefer 

(And pray they be not scant), that thou wouldst drive 

Each cloud of his mortality away, 

Through thine own prayers, that on the sovereign joy 

Lnvehed he gaze. This yet, I pray thee, Oueen, 

Who canst do what thou wilt ; that in him thou 

Wouldst, after all he hath beheld, preserve 

Affection sound, and human passions quell. 

Lo ! where, with Beatrice, many a saint 

Stretch their clasped hands, in furtherance of my suit." 

The poet looks on the central light ; but he is 
unable to relate his transcendent vision — in which 
human nature appears to him sublimated and identi- 
fied with the very nature of the Deity. 



The Deity. 411 

.... Thenceforward, what I saw, 
Was not for words to speak, nor memory's self 
To stand against such outrage on her skill. 

As one, who from a dream awakened, straight, 
All he hath seen forgets ; yet still retains 
Impression of the feeling in his dream ; 
E'en such am I : for all the vision dies, 
As 'twere, away ; and yet the sense of sweet, 
That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart. 
Thus in the sun-thaw is the snow unsealed ; 
Thus in the winds on flitting leaves was lost 
The Sibyl's sentence. O eternal beam ! 
(Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar ?) 
Yield me again some little particle 
Of what thou then appearedst ; give my tongue 
Power, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory, 
Unto the race to come, that shall not lose 
Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught 
Of memory in me, and endure to hear 
The record sound in this unequal strain. 

Such keenness from the living ray I met, 
That, if mine eyes had turned away, methinks, 
I had been lost; but, so emboldened, on 
I passed, as I remember, -till my view 
Hovered the brink of dread infinitude. 

O grace, unenvying of thy boon ! that gavest 
Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken 
On the everlasting splendor, that I looked, 
While sight was unconsumed ; and, in that depth, 
Saw in one volume clasped of love A whate'er 
The universe unfolds ; all properties 
Of substance and of accident, beheld, 
Compounded, yet one individual light 



412 c fhe Deity. 

The whole. And of such bond methinks I saw 

The universal form ; for that whene'er 

I do but speak of it, my soul dilates 

Beyond her proper self; and, till I speak, 

One moment seems a longer lethargy, 

Than five-and-twenty ages had appeared 

To that emprize, that first made Neptune wonder 

At Argo's shadow darkening on his flood. 

With fixed heed, suspense and motionless, 
Wondering I gazed; and admiration still 
Was kindled as I gazed. It may not be, 
That one, who looks upon that light, can turn 
To other object, willingly, his view. 
For all the good, that will may covet, there 
Is summed ; and all, elsewhere defective found, 
Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no more 
E'en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe's, 
That yet is moistened at his mother's breast. 
Not that the semblance of the living light 
Was changed (that ever as at first remained), 
But that my vision quickening, in that sole 
Appearance, still new miracles descried, 
And toiled me with the change. In that abyss 
Of radiance, clear and lofty, seemed, methought, 
Three orbs of triple hue, clipped in one bound : 
And, from another, one reflected seemed, 
As rainbow is from rainbow : and the third 
Seemed fire, breathed equally from both, O speech ! 
How feeble and how faint art thou, to give 
Conception birth. Yet this to what I saw 
Is less than little. O eternal light ! 
Sole in thyself that dwell'st ; and of thyself 
Sole understood, past, present, or to come ; 



I 



The Deity. 

Thou smiledst, on that circling, which in thee 
Seemed as reflected splendor, while I mused ; 
For I therein, methought, in its own hue 
Beheld our image painted : steadfastly 
I therefore pored upon the view. As one, 
Who, versed in geometric lore, would fain 
Measure the circle ; and, though pondering long 
And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, 
Finds not : e'en such was I, intent to scan 
The novel wonder, and trace out the form, 
How to the circle fitted, and therein 
How placed : but the flight was not for my wing ; 
Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, 
And, in the spleen, unfolded what it sought. 

Here vigor failed the towering fantasy : 
But yet the will rolled onward, like a wheel 
In even motion, by the love impelled, 
That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars.* 

* Paradiso, xxxiii. 



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